


N020: Lurking in the Shadows - Redux

by Rhion



Series: Lurking in the Shadows [5]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types, Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, F/M, Minor Violence, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-08-12
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:57:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wasn't a nice man by any notion of the word. His world was one filled with hedonistic violence, emotional attachment and sentiment were poisonous diseases to be eradicated. And in her eyes, he was little more than a despotic robber baron, some thug who gained power by might and cruelty and cunning. All wrapped up in a package of vicious temper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For years I've intended on doing this, but not really gotten around to it. It's time for a rewrite, but at the same time the selfish, self aggrandizing little sot that I am, wants to keep the old one around for public view. Warts, ranting and all. Anyone interested, I want to display the progress I've made and the difference five years of perspective makes. I add this to a fandom that's virtually defunct, where once there were thousands upon thousands of Suspian/Casue stories on various archives that were beautifully laid out, and even on FanFicNet, due to politics, loss of interest, so on, so forth, the fandom has become a collection of languishing stories dotting a barren landscape here and there. Mere afterthoughts in a forgotten wasteland.
> 
> Still, as an exercise in bettering my skills and wanting to do better in general, here I go....hang on for the same dark ride, but (hopefully) delivered with more skill and depth.
> 
> Chapter One was rewritten in a punishing glut of nine hours of effort, with almost everything sacrificed and redone completely. 
> 
>  
> 
> **Warning: There are dark themes, characters are far darker than those portrayed in movie and book. They are also not necessarily what they seem at first, no matter how reprehensible. I am by no means excusing any behaviour as acceptable, but this is a story, one that was dark from its very inception. An exploration of the darkest reaches I could think of at the time, while posing the question if the attacker (who was, himself, extremely abused and grew in a society where this was considered normal) can reform and if that attacker can seek to heal the damage he has caused.**

One:  
XXX

Susan looked about, confused, her head ringing. She hadn’t a clue as to how she had gotten here. As to where ‘here’ was, it was a pool, a very pretty pool, in a clearing, with very picturesque sunlight and little butterflies - well, it just looked like out of some fairytale painting. And she hadn’t the vaguest notion as to how she had gotten there. 

...Actually, that wasn’t quite true. Not entirely. But _really_ how was jumping out of the way of an automobile being driven by a moron with a bunch of idiotic, reckless boys in the backseat, causing the automobile to jump the curb quite violently, leading to her jumping out of the way...only to then subsequently roll and fall down a _hill_ in a most undignified manner, and _then_ only to bump and tumble to a halt...and open her eyes to see _this place_...how was **any of that** logical at all?

With a huff, Susan rubbed her head, frowning, utterly put out, and scanned her surroundings. Trees, trees, a few rocks, oh look some bushes - this was _certainly not_ anywhere familiar to her. If this was London, she would eat her hat. Not that she was wearing a hat, and Susan reached for her satchel, still frowning as she tried to get her bearings, still dizzy from all the rolling and tumbling, her knees and legs smarting since her uniform’s skirt hadn’t done much to protect them.

A rustle and she tensed, turning, only to have everything go funny again, everything swimming, as pain struck her head a dozen times harder than it had during her uncontrolled tumble.

Swinging resolved itself into being trussed like a holiday hog on a spit, hanging from bound wrists, knees, and ankles. Susan blinked and blinked, seeking some sort of sense in it all, and decided it must be like Lewis Carroll’s book, Alice In Wonderland which she had been reading to Lucy lately. A dream, it was all a dream, just a bad figment of a knock to the head and the tinned meat sandwich she’d had for lunch going all funny and off in her stomach. Indigestion born hallucinations, that’s all. 

It was the only thing that made sense as her gaze was focused, upside down, on a furry set of goat legs and rump that faded up into vaguely humanoid torso, which she decided must belong to a very mythical (present view notwithstanding) satyr. Or were they called fauns? What with her head ringing so, it was difficult to recall. Still, indignity of indignities, she was trussed like a _pig_ , being carted about like some prize hunt piece, no doubt showing off her knickers to all and sundry... But it was a dream, and as irritating as that was -

 _Dreams don’t hurt,_ part of her mind scrambled and hooked onto that. 

Well, not quite true - dreams did hurt, but it wasn’t so nasty. Head to toe she was strained and bruised feeling, stomach all queasy, and a whimper broke free. Going lax, because keeping tense was doing more to hurt, Susan’s swinging, swaying vision saw an upside down mountain-pyramid spotted with trees. Earthworks seemed to be every which way - at least, that’s what she assumed, trying not to lose that nasty lunch of her sandwich with every lurch, forcing her mind to absorb details. 

Torchlight and pale yellow stone, sandstone perhaps, clanging, banging sounds, and onwards into that edifice, Susan was carried. Eventually there came a halt, and one of the creatures waddled forward in rapid and awkward steps, swaying side to side, rats’ nest snarl of salt and pepper mane, Susan only got a glimpse before she was dropped onto the hard floor, forcing air and an indignant and muffled ‘oomph!’ from her, garbled by the gag in her mouth.

Soft striding taps of boot heels heralded the snapping of an accented voice, “What is this?” and Susan blinked dazedly as the dark skinned, dark haired man grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him, leather biting her face from his gloves. “Interesting, where did you find her, Nikabrik?”

The dwarf - Susan decided the waddling man must be one, he certainly seemed like one, what with the bulbous nose, the natty hair, and diminutive stature (and she was as far from ‘tall’ as possible herself) - bowed low before speaking. “Your Highness, she was wandering around, muttering near one of the springs.” Her satchel was held out, “She carried this with her, Your Highness.”

The man straightened, showing off an impressive height, the many braziers and torches that filled the cavernous space only making his clearly sun-baked skin even darker, and as he fell to a squat, inspecting her with those glittering obsidian eyes, leaning even closer, so she could almost feel his breath, she got more than a whiff of sweat and horse. “You are not Telmarine, nor are you Narnian. Archenlander perhaps,” tugging off a glove, thumb running over her cheek before calloused fingers took cruel hold of her face again, twisting and jerking her head to the side, “though your colouring is off.” Narrowed gaze, “I have never seen someone so fair with dark hair, yet possessing eyes the colour of sapphires.” Sniffing once before sighing, the man smacked his hands together, dusting them free of imaginary dust as he stood again, “Nevermind anyway, I have not the time to question her at the moment.”

“What would you have us do with her, m’Lord?” Nikabrik jabbed Susan in the side with a grotesquely long finger, grinning, and Susan was still held somehow silent and immobile, rather than thrashing and trying to talk through the nasty tasty rawhide gag, “I’m sure the lads could figure out some fun for her.” 

Now _that_ frightened her, and renewed her struggling, awakening the need to do _something_. Susan may not know much about boys, but she'd heard enough stories about men - particularly soldiers - to last her a lifetime. Sure it was spoken of in whispers, but even Peter had warned her away from soldiers on leave, even ones who seemed nice were to be kept at distance. That...and satyrs according to Greek mythology - well she remembered enough of it to know that being at their tender mercies wouldn't be good at all. The man who was in charge turned to look at her once more, head cocked, then leaned down with a snort as though amused by her struggles and gave her a lazy backhand that made her see stars.

"She would be ruined if left to you, I may have time for her later. Send her to my quarters," limp, dazed to stupidity once more, and unable to even voice protest or struggle, too addled to.

Never in her life had she been hit so many times in one go - even when she'd broken the large antique mirror that belonged to her mother and had had to go outside to pick her own switch. So never in her life had she been treated like so. Huddling as best she could while being hauled through the cavernous hallways, torches lighting the sandstone and granite of their route, Susan just didn't know what to do. It didn’t help that she hurt so badly from head to toe, or that feeling in her fingers and toes was all off, or that she was sick to her stomach, or that she wanted to cry, all of her customary sensibility and logic having fled. 

Eventually, and completely unceremonious, the fauns jerked the pole from her bindings, but still left her tied up. All she could do was glare evilly at them as they left her heaped on the floor, having collected her wits enough for that. Wriggling around ignoring her aches and pains, Susan tried to figure out how to get out of this mess. If this was a dream maybe she could change how things were working by positive thinking. And that was ignoring her fear that maybe this wasn’t a dream, what with all the pain and the striking going on.

Scooting about on the cold floor, Susan squirmed and wriggled to get her back up against the rough wall, which dug into her back through her coat and blouse. As she worked at loosening some of her bindings, at least enough so she didn’t need to worry about lost blood flow, Susan took stock. The room didn’t look like it belonged to a castle or any sort of fortification, but more like a cave that had been altered just enough to be somewhat habitable. The walls weren’t smooth, and the room was certainly not a perfect square, though maybe with work it could be. More like a lopsided and uneven height shoebox, with an extra little dip where the door was, made of heavy wood and black, banded iron with rivets, and what looked to be a sliding bolt on the inside. The ceiling was high, plenty of soot marks from torches left their residue as they lit the room. If it weren’t for the slits here and there in the rock, Susan would worry for the air quality, but even then, she was wary, questioning whomever thought it was wise to use light sources that shed so much smoke in such a space, even though it was fairly open for a room without windows and only a single door. A smallish table, bigger than a desk, smaller than a dining table for two, with a rough cobbled together chair sat not too far off, several small clay bowls on it, along with a wooden tankard, piles of messy paper, and a tray with what _looked_ like feathers and pots. Maybe it was someone’s idea of a place to work and eat at the same time? That was the closest bit of furniture to her, unless of course she wanted to count the nasty, ratty pile of hay shoved up against a wall, covered with a few blankets and furs haphazardly. Otherwise, there was only one piece of furniture in the room - a washstand, as rickety as the table and chair, but for the fact that it had a rather shiny mirror suspended from a wooden post that was attached to the stand, all at angles and heights suited to a fairly tall man.

Beyond that, there was a collection of strewn bits of clothes, leather, discarded and bloodied linen, and a very finely made set of...saddlebags? Or satchels, Susan couldn’t tell, and they were by the door. _Well, and that bucket, there’s a bucket, Su, so that’s one other thing..._

With a sigh, Susan frowned, concentrating on keeping her breathing steady, repeating that she needed to stay calm, think positive, and that those things should make the unpleasant and peculiar dream change.

Several hours later positive thinking hadn't helped one iota. She was still stuck with her wrists and ankles bound, and she _really_ had to pee. Not only that, but Susan was incredibly tired. Before her tumble, she had been walking home after a particularly nasty day at school where she got detention for no understandable reason. All she wanted right now was to be home, making dinner for her siblings in the little house in Finchley, trying to do well enough with their rations. Curling up into a tight ball, she was too fatigued to fight the tears that had been threatening to fall for the last while.

So engrossed was she in being miserable, gaze and mind turned inwards, that she didn't notice the scuff of a boot, or the jangling of armour. Not until it was too late. A hand clamped on her shoulder, rolling Susan over from where she had curled on her side, face towards the wall, and there he was. The man who'd had her thrown into this room, who'd hit her, and who stank of sweat, wine, stables and leather.

"Wonderful, a sniveler," he sounded bored, black eyes in his dark face, accented words - he was everything she'd thought a villain should be. "I am going to remove the gag - but if you begin screaming, crying excessively, or being generally bothersome - I will replace it. And it will come out of your hide,” he listed, brows up. “Do you understand? Nod if you do."

Shivering, Susan managed a nod, her stomach roiling.

"Good," and the filthy cloth was finally removed with ungentle yanking and prying. "Now -"

"I need to pee," in a rush, interrupting. At his glare, Susan began to get angry, but something about him advised her against telling him what was what right then and there. "I really do..."

With a growl, the rangey man hauled her up bodily, the strength in the motion startling, terrifying, as she was hoisted to her feet, then made to hop-hobble as he dragged her to the corner where the bucket she had noticed earlier sat. The halt at the bucket wasn’t any fun, as it sort of smelled, and Susan didn’t want to think about that as the man squatted long enough to unbind her feet. When she didn’t move, still staring dubiously at the bucket, he gave her a shove, “If you have to go, go, this is not an inn where your comforts are seen to.”

Finally unable to continue denying the purpose for that bucket, Susan looked at him, mortified, “Ugh! That’s disgusting!”

Muscle ticking in his jaw, "I do not have patience to deal with this - if you soil yourself, it is none of my concern," a hand like iron clamped back around her arm, his muscles tensing in readiness to haul her about once more.

Digging her feet in, she blurted unthinking, just in sore need of the loo and upset from her ugly day, “Hey! Fine - I’ll do it your way, you villainous barbarian!” In response his hand rose as it had earlier, and Susan instantly shrank in on herself, not wanting to be struck again, “I’m sorry - wait, wait, I’m just...not used to this. I’ll behave!”

He had paused long enough for her to finish speaking, but her words didn’t stop the rocketing forth of his hand. Tears stung her eyes at the sharp crack of pain, yet she had an odd feeling that the blow had landed lighter than originally intended. Gasping at the stinging pain, Susan still scrunched her eyes closed, making herself use the bucket awkwardly, teeth grit at the humiliation of having to use it in front of him. Even though he did have enough manners to turn his head to the side, it wasn’t much consolation all things considered. Straightening up as much as she could in spite of her bound hands - and the lack of amenities - Susan cleared her throat waiting for her apparent jailor to do whatever it was he intended to do. Though the thought did enter her mind (briefly) that if he knocked her out, she may wake up back in Finchley, and realize that the last hours were really and truly due to a concussion. That would be just lovely. On the other hand, she also didn’t think inciting further abuse was wise, whether a blackout or not would allow her to go home.

His attention swung back to her, holding her immobile and she found herself hauled back to the spot he had yanked her up from earlier. “Mph, now, where are you from? Who sent you?” his grip was a vise as it shifted, twisting and cruel on the same place he had been holding earlier, as though she bore a sign that said ‘Strangle My Arm Right Here, Please’. His presence loomed over her by more than a head and some, and in his rough linen shirt, the jangling grey-green of his riveted leather jerkin, turned him into a strange creature only bearing passing resemblance to a man. “The penalty for lying is not pleasant,” tone brooking no argument as his black eyed gaze bored into her.

Biting her lip, swallowing, Susan managed to keep from shrinking in on herself entirely, “I’m from Finchley, and no one sent me. I don’t even know where I am.”

“Did I not just say that I will not tolerate lies?” nostrils flaring, voice harsh. Susan cringed instantly, expecting another blow as his free hand came out, but instead she was grabbed, and slammed into the rough hewn wall, lifted so that her toes were barely on the floor, fingers digging into the column of her neck, cutting off air, and she panicked, fighting with her own free hand, scrambling to grab him uselessly with her bound hands, terrified. “Things will go easier if you tell me who sent you.”

Spots floated over her vision, lungs burning, body tingling from the rush of adrenaline, but his grasp relaxed enough for her feet to touch the floor more, and loosened from her throat so she could gasp a breath or two, the words struggling free, “Not - not lying!”

“You must like pain,” the words muttered, his expression unmoved, turning to bored irritation. There was no warning beyond that, and Susan flailed as she was tossed aside several feet to impact the floor, skidding with the lazy force put into it. Rolling over she scooted and hissed in pain, frantic, but he was there in a few easy swift steps, her tormenter squatting before her, looking at her like a bug. His hand thrust its way into her hair, tight and deep, close to the scalp, ignoring the loosened braid she wore, and she was yanked backwards, forcing her back to arch. Disinterest in every flicker of him she could see, his words were delivered with the sort of aloofness of someone unconcerned by a change in weather, “I can keep this up longer than you can hold out on information, girl. My suggestion is to come clean, so I ask again - who sent you?”

Sobbing for air, startled and terrified from the casual assault and abuse, “No one! I come from Finchley, no one sent me.”

Not that she had thought it would, but it was the truth - the truth didn’t seem to sway him at all. It earned her no pity, and another strike landed over her face. The process was repeated, hoisted and lifted up like a bale of hay, slam her into a wall, strangling her, then toss her like a sack of potatoes. Not once did he seem moved by a single thing he did, he was blank, bored, as impervious as the stone she landed on or was slammed into. And with each repetition, he asked the same questions, to which she gave the same answers, because Susan still had no other answers for him but those truths. None of it would do, none of it was satisfactory to him, and if she just knew what she had to say to make it stop - Susan would say those things, no matter that they were lies, gladly, in hopes of making it stop.

Cold splash, startled, Susan sputtered, swimming back from darkness, and another splash - water. It had been thrown over her face, forcing her to return to the stone room, her uncaring gaoler and torturer was squatting over her again, his cleft chin set firm, “Who sent you? I can keep this up all night, as I have informed you several times already. Thus far, I have been taking it easy on you, as you are a woman.” Long fingers curled, biting into her shoulder, the digging points of fingertips sending shooting bruising pain, “My patience is wearing thin, however. When it runs out, more persuasive measures can easily be employed if need be. This is the last warning you shall receive. Now, tell me the truth - who sent you?”

Scrunching her eyes closed, Susan shook her head weakly, whimpering, “I don’t know...I don’t know...”

“Miraz probably told you I was weak,” the words said with an indelicate snort. Raking fingers through the shaggy, mangled curls of his dark hair, “Well my dearest uncle was wrong.” Mouth settling into a grim line, “I do not take mercy upon spies. Be they female or male, adult or child, all is fair in war, girl, and I am not the weakling he supposes, not the ineffectual little boy he paints me as to the Council. I will reclaim my throne.” His dark burning eyes bored into hers, “Even at the expense of women and children. If that is what Miraz sends, then that is what I shall kill.”

Shuddering, Susan watched him, too weak to do more than whisper, “I still don’t know.” 

Maybe death would be a relief at this point. Be this a dream (nightmare more like) or real, it was a blurry line she couldn’t tell which was true or not. Susan had never experienced _real_ pain in her life. Up until that moment, she had thought the worst thing was her monthly, which would frequently leave her doubled up, in agony, puking and tired. This systematic beating and abuse was different. Head to toe, she felt bruised, battered, ravaged, she was dizzy and the room kept spinning... Truthfully? Susan just didn’t have any fight left.

XXX

Susan must have passed out again, because she awoke in pain, but it was mostly quiet. A shiver moved through her, limbs tensing, and she bit her lip - still tied up. Still tied up meant she was still in that nightmare place. Swallowing, she whimpered as she tried to move, to roll over, to do something to find a position that lessened the pain. Before she could move much, something icy cold was pressed to her throat, making her eyes snap open.

“So you are awake. Now, who sent you?” Unbearably close, his breath on her face, he was someone peering through a window he was so in her face, near enough she could count his pores if given a moment to do so. As she swallowed, his scrutiny didn’t lessen, but he moved back incrementally, and she realized the icy cold thing touching her neck was a wicked dagger as the shift drew her eye to his arm, then down to his wrist, and the hilt there in his hand, leading to a long blade whose tip she couldn’t see...but she could feel it.

Closing her eyes, Susan gave up, unable to summon tears or anything, just empty resignation. “Look, no one sent me, if you’re going to kill me, kill me. I’m too tired to deal with this anymore. Just...get it over with already.”

“You believe I will not do it, is that what this is?” hissing at her, the pressure increased, a pinprick of burning, and the track of something hot slipped as she breathed shallowly.

Uncaring for the blade’s pressure, Susan wriggled until she was a little ball of misery. Likely she wouldn’t have been able to move far if he hadn’t released the pressure, pulling back, but Susan didn’t care or pay it any mind, she was done. “I don’t care, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know who you are, why there are creatures straight out of the mythology books everywhere, or anything. Just...stop hitting me or kill me already. I don’t care anymore, I just...I just want the pain to stop. There isn’t anything else left.”

“I barely did anything to you, nothing more than a bit of softening up.” Muttering, “I am beginning to wonder if creative methods will work...”

"Whatever, I don't care, do whatever you want you cowardly cretin," it came out empty and there was no spite or heat to it, as unmoved by the threat of violence and further abuse as he had been while doling it out. Susan just wanted to go home.

Comparatively it was bordering on kind, seeking to draw her out no doubt, “Where is your home then, girl?”

Susan hadn’t realized she had spoken of her wish aloud. It should have stayed in her head. This place should just go away along with everything else, too.

Exasperated, “I _told_ you already. Finchley. It’s a large neighbourhood to the northerly side of London. You know, London? In England. It’s a big island off the coast of Europe. Difficult to miss on the maps, even for the illiterate.”

After a few moments of deep silence, weighty with almost audible thought. Then, the names tripped over, bungled, “Finch-lay? Loon-dune? Eeg-land? Urope? Where are these places?”

“Are you a simpleton as well as barbaric?” put out, huffing softly, her eyes still closed. The lack of blows thus far was unexpected, though not exactly _encouraging_ either, so Susan gathered up the energy to open her eyes once more. Ruler of the Arseholes, King Cretin - as she thought of the nameless man now - was sitting there, legs crossed, holding his chin in a hand, elbow propped on a bony knee, brows drawn low over his midnight black eyes as he watched her, the dagger laying at rest over the other knee. Scoffing at him, “I didn’t think you could get any worse. You really are simple as well as an ugly oaf. Is it so difficult to think of a response to that other than striking an unarmed girl?”

Sternly, gaze sharpening in focus on her once more, “You do realize that most would kill you for such words?” Face twisting into an ugly grimace, “I am the Crown Prince of Telmar and Narnia, and you have the audacity to insult me. Interesting - you are either incredibly brave, or even simpler than you dare to accuse me of being.”

Releasing a sound of disgust, “Oh, that explains _everything_ \- you’re some moron prince of a little no name place. That’s rich.” The strength to turn her back on him was scrounged up, “I always wanted to meet a prince, and it just figures that the first one I meet, beats the stuffing out of me because he’s too stupid to know the truth when it racks him right in the balls, ugh, what a _vile_ little wanker.”

Out of the other things she had said, that must have been too far, for he snarled, and Susan found herself being pinned, squashed under his greater weight, straddled, a hand around her neck but not squeezing, the other yanking her hair, “You will not speak to me thusly!”

Irrationally fire scorched her veins. “Or what? You’ll hit me? Defenseless little old me? Quite princely of you, very brave and regal, ever so chivalrous of you. Does that make you feel like a man?” hissing at him like an angry feline, teeth bared, animalistic. “Threatening little girls get you your jollies? Rot in hell, you poxy wog.” Susan hadn’t a single notion as to where the anger came from, she was good at being put out sometimes, but this took the cake. Especially considering the hazardous nature of her situation. She was just so bloody _tired_ that even having the strength to breathe was difficult to come by. Yet she was egging the obviously deranged and violent man on as though it were little more than a _game_. “News flash, Dickless Wonder - you’ve already done your uncreative worst, and even if you had the brainpower to come up with something more, _it won’t work_. There’s nothing more to tell, there’s nothing more you can do to me, there’s just nothing! I already want to die and I no longer give a damn! I couldn’t care less at all about it, you, your questions, or a steaming pile of horseshite! It’s all the same! So why don’t you remove your _filthy hands_ from me, and go foist yourself on your favourite _goat_ like the greasy dago you are!”

Surprise, shock, overcame the rage twisting his face, and he recoiled as though struck by a brand. Sputtering as his grip on her throat and in her hair relaxed, “You - you - you!”

“What?” primly she questioned, sneering at him. “Cat got your tongue? Go away! Or do your worst, it won’t impress me. You’ve already proven you’re little more than a pisspot nancy! Utterly pathetic,” snapping at him softly, each word like a nail in a coffin being hammered with gross finality. For all the lack of force to her voice, the disdain poured, dripped, ran in flowing rivers of bitter, hateful rancor, “It’s obvious that the better part of you was an unpleasant stain on the sheets of your parents’ bed on the night of your conception. Too bad the rest of you didn’t wind up in the wash, as well, it would have spared me your presence.”

He practically hurled himself up and away from her bodily, limbs and body lurching, snarling to himself as he stomped from one end of the room to the other, flailing and gesticulating. "I should kill you - but you would like that would you not?" his breath was coming from him in short bursts, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "I could throw you to my men, or take you myself, but again you would like that would you not? Bitter, ugly little bitches like you love that sort of thing!"

"About as much as I'd like you to sit on a spear and spin," sighing, then studiously went about ignoring him, bored with the encounter.

XXX

Hours or minutes later, Susan couldn’t rightly say, she kept losing time, and she came awake once more. Still on a cold stone floor. And still in pain all over her face. The stiffness was the worst. After the Crown Prince of Slimey Dago Wankers had finally ceased his pacing, Susan had gone to sleep. It was to find some escape from the horror and abuse of her day, futile and impermanent a flight it was, it was all she had to turn to for some semblance of succor. Yet now she was aware again, Susan still hated every minute of it.

Wiggling around, she decided to take stock of her surroundings once more. Maybe if she got enough energy to, she may be able to escape. And why hadn’t she thought of that earlier, before the imbecile had come in to accost her? Oh, right, her legs had been completely bound, now it was just her hands, that was an improvement, not that it was much of one. On the pallet of straw - lucky bastard - her tormentor slept, the hilt of his sword grasped loosely in his hand. The blade was naked, another point of proof that he truly was an idiot, as, who the hell slept with a bared blade? Then again her opinion wasn’t very high of him, it probably couldn’t get any lower, even if he dragged in another hapless victim to show off how vile he was, it couldn’t exceed her already set in stone estimation of his sewer quality. After all, he beat on lost girls, anyone who could do that, was able to do pretty much anything. In repose, perversely, his face lost almost all of its cruelty and he came close to looking innocent. Asleep, Susan’s estimate of his age being mid twenties plummeted to late teens, or maybe even a little younger, for even Peter had more hair on his face, so perhaps he was her own age of seventeen. But how did one peg an age on such a monster, especially one so comfortable in that ugly skin? Besides, Susan hadn’t any notion as to how southern Europeans aged, she just knew it was different than her own kind. A quiet noise broke her from her speculation, accompanied by a few twitches, and Susan had a moment where she felt very badly for him as he was clearly trapped in nightmare. That emotion fled very quickly though, over almost as soon as it started, as she had breathed deep, and the stabbing pain in her body reminded her to feel no pity for the rabid animal, one locked in bad dreams or not.

With a great deal of effort, Susan managed to lever herself into a sitting position, so she could better examine her bound wrists. A frown and she worried her lip, ignoring the pain _that_ caused to her split lips, Susan was certain she recognized a few of the knots used. Peter had taught her a few things about knots when they were younger as they played, and she had found herself bound on several occasions. And of course her elder brother eventually learned that his little sister would hunt him down and return the favour in kind...with interest. Eventually he had stopped picking on her at some point. Sighing softly, despite the pain the deep breath caused, and set to work with her teeth. She was most of the way through the primary knot when her jailor sprang to his feet, sword point flicking in the air to press to her jugular.

Frozen, blinking, Susan hadn’t ever seen anyone move so fast, and it took a moment for it all to register.

“Attempting to win free? To kill me?” it was soft, patient menace in the two small questions.

It was her turn to growl - she couldn’t stand it when boys tried to intimidate her, and it didn’t matter that nice girls didn’t get into scrapes, Susan had found herself in enough of those situations to know that that was what he was trying to do. Well it wouldn’t work. “While it’d be nice if you simply stopped existing, or if somehow you managed to up and finish yourself off, no. Killing you would be messy and annoying if I somehow was able to rid the world of you. _And_ it would be far more effort than garbage like you is worth.” Scooting back from him enough so she could return to chewing at the knot a bit more, mumbling around it, “But yes, I am trying to get loose. I’m sick of being tied up. You’re an atrocious host, you know, your mother should take a switch to you for it.”

“My mother is dead, and you will speak no ill of her,” said with an odd reflexive manner, accompanied by a whack to her knuckles with the flat of his sword.

Eyes widening, Susan’s mouth fell open, “Oh thats just tears it!” Clumsily she regained her feet, fumbling and bracing against the wall with an elbow, Susan brought herself up to her full height - just over five feet, barely coming to mid chest on the prince. And she let loose everything pent up, unleashing her incredulous anger, fear, and shock at all that had happened. “You are an ill mannered, disgusting, foul smelling, rude, horrid, distempered _wanker_! I don’t _care_ if your mother’s dead - it doesn’t give you license to treat me like this!” Taking another step towards him, ignoring the point of his blade that he held poised to run her through, calling his bluff enough so that he backed up minutely, his dark eyes wide in consternation, “There are no words in the English language for what you are! A menace, an idiot! A lout! A barbarian! Cretin, coward, jerk, oaf! Nothing fits you accurately, but maybe this is close enough - a selfish little, know nothing prick, who puts rocks to shame on the scales of common sense, decency and intelligence, a creature who should take that shiny stick and shove it up his goddamned arse! But whatever you do, leave me out of it, because you’re less than a waste of my time! You’re worth less than the spit and breath it’s taking me to insult you! You just had to go and rile me up, didn’t you?” With each word, Susan waved her bound hands about, following - chasing more like - him around the room as he slowly backed away from her, keeping a constant distance between them. Glaring mightily at him, “Why don’t you just do everyone a favour and off yourself? It’d save the world time!”

“You have backbone,” having found his own, or at least his own voice, which he lashed her with, “I will give you that. And you are somewhat entertaining, which is another point in your favour. But do not think that this allows you leeway -”

Screeching, disbelieving, head tipped back, Susan spoke to the ceiling, “Leeway? _Gives me leeway_? Oh that’s just **bloody rich** , this sniveling piece of shite thinks I don’t have every right to put him in his place!”

“Enough!” it was a roar. “What will it take to silence you, you evil shrew?”

Taken aback at the fact that he showed brains enough to realize that gagging her wouldn’t work - she had it on good authority (chiefly her siblings) that a look from her was worse than anything she could actually _say_ , a glower could peel paint. She hadn’t thought he was capable of asking something so simple and sensible. Half of her had thought she’d have driven him to slay her by now. Mouth opening and closing, Susan tried to figure it all out, then went with a list of her ills, “I haven’t eaten, I’m cold, I’m tired, and I want you to untie me!” Nodding briskly at him, as though it had been her plan all along, “That’ll do for starters.”

Releasing a harsh laugh, “Food is reasonable enough, but there is no way I shall unbind you - you can remain exactly as you are in that.”

“Why not?” offended.

“Because, you will seek to claw my eyes out,” the dark orbs widening briefly as he shrugged philosophically, and threw her own earlier sentiments back at her, “and killing you would make an awful mess of my room.”

Saying as sweetly as she possibly could while fluttering lashes despite the fact that she was quite sure she looked like a bruised raccoon, which hurt anyway, “Well of course! Why ever wouldn’t I do that? Seeing as you’ve yet to give me _one_ reason not to do so at the first opportunity I can grasp, Your Cretinous Lordship, it’d be utterly logical for me to go for it when I can.”

She was ignored with brisk efficiency, walking to the door and working it open, leaning out to speak to someone she couldn’t see, “Hitastik - bring enough food for the prisoner, along with my breakfast.” The door slammed shut afterwards, the leather of his brigandine jangling and clanking against itself as the rivets struck with the motion. With false graciousness, he gestured to the pallet he had been occupying not that long ago, “Be my guest and help yourself to my bed, then. Just keep quiet for a few seconds.” With that he proceeded to shuck his brigandine and shirts, revealing a body that was mangled, abused and chewed up, slathered in horrific scars.

Stomach knotting, Susan’s jaw dropped, as her bruised face stretched in shock, “Oh goodness me...”

Never had Susan seen something like that in her life, and she was held frozen, just...staring and standing in the middle of the room. He shot her a perturbed glance and went to the small basin, pouring a bit of water from the battered pitcher into the bowl. As he went about splashing some of it over himself, it was like he thought such minor ablutions would get him somewhat cleaner. After that single look, he ignored her, but Susan really couldn’t tear her gaze away from the ravaged flesh of his broad shouldered back that narrowed rapidly into a swimmer’s rangey build. The mat of scars disappeared into the top of his pants, long thick white lines, some freshly scarred, some ancient and healed, in layers to a point where there was little skin remaining that was unabused on his back. Just...great ugly lashing welts and furrows crisscrossed all over, shoulder to shoulder, and down, brushing his ribs and sides, halting at some unseen point. Sick, utterly ill, Susan’s lips trembled in sympathy at the systematic, prolonged agony he must have gone through. About his chest and arms there were others, less measured, more ragged, and one or two looked like his skin had been torn in great flaps only to be sewn clumsily back in place with a child’s level of skill at crosstitch.

Every single last one of them appeared to have healed badly. No one should be so beaten, tortured and gouged. A ragged creature of sinew, bone, muscle, and scars, held together with spite and violence.

The low, heavily accented voice lilted cold and arrogant, breaking through her horrified reverie, “See something you like?” Standing before her, crowding her, and Susan was the perfect height to see the life he’d had, all its evidence painting his flesh in ugly lines of venom and hate. He leaned in close, nose not far from hers, “If you are good, I may let you touch them.”

Revolted by him for his attitude, “Not even if you were the last living being other than myself in the world! Ugh!” 

Susan’s intended venom and vitriol were missing, the levels vastly reduced from what she had summoned up earlier.

Unable to help it, Susan pitied him, not that there was anything she could actually do about it. Sniffing once to demonstrate how unruffled she was by his display, Susan turned on her heel, summoning what dignity she possessed in her scuffed up and battered uniform, to shuffle to his pallet with what little steadiness her wobbling legs could muster. Yes, she was tired - _Exhausted, utterly done in_ \- but he had ordered food brought. For the promise of food, Susan would remain awake long enough to pack it away in hopes that sleep and food would combine to be a healing thing for her body. From the corner of her eye, she watched the ruffian as he moistened and soaped his face, then began to draw the very same wicked knife he had threatened her with earlier over his skin. Wincing, Susan had a hard time looking as he scrapped it over his face in wet rasps travelling over neck, chin, jaw, cheeks, and even under his _nose_ like it was a safety razor, or even an old fashioned straight razor. Madman, that’s what he was, only explanation that was remotely sane.

Asking as he was rinsing the blade, “What’s your name anyway? I could keep calling you Prince Wanker, or just Arsehole if I’m feeling overly familiar, but I have a feeling that there are more ‘men’ - term used loosely, mind - like you around just as deserving of those titles. So, just to keep it all straight, what _do_ you call yourself? And do try to keep it light, because there’s no way I’m going to call you ‘His Majesty The Magnificent Manly Wonder of All Creation Henry’ or some other mouthful of utter rubbish.”

“Caspian,” tilting his face to the side, making a fresh pass over one of the major veins in the neck. Susan couldn’t contain a cringe at that - what if he slipped? Everyone would think _she_ had killed him if that happened!

Dubiously, “No title of Prince Caspian, Lord of All He Surveys?” 

Caspian flicked his gaze over to her, pausing his ministrations long enough to do so, "I thought we had a deal?"

Quizzically, “A deal? I don’t remember any sort of agreement with you.” Wrapping her arms around her legs, Susan shivered. She really wished she had something more to wear other than her damaged school uniform - she was awfully cold.

“Yes,” he grunted. “The one where you silence your harpy’s tongue, and in return you are fed and can sleep.” Patting his face dry, gaze piercing her through the mirror’s reflection, “It is far more favourable than you deserve.” Towel hung on the edge of the washstand, it was revealed he hadn’t nicked himself once. 

Studiously forcing herself to look away from the abyss that was his presence - which had its own gravitational pull, seeking to devour everything around him - Susan shrugged, eyeing the cloak that had been tossed at the foot of his makeshift bed. “I still don’t recall there being any deal.” Pointing out reasonably, “At least I’m not yelling at you, that should be plenty for your miniscule, delicate ego.”

Susan swore she could _hear_ his jaw being set into a hard line as he dressed himself in his creamy, stained and faded linen tunic, the weight of his eyes unpleasant as he attempted to pin her. “I could simply cut your tongue out.”

“Oh, promises, promises from the well situated man in charge to his unwilling guest,” snarking at him, rolling her eyes, untroubled by his weak threat. “Does that mean I get to cut off your manhood for fairsies? Oh, wait - that’s right. You haven’t got anything resembling that.”

For a brief moment it seemed like Caspian would snipe back at her, but a knock came at his door, making him shake his head, a dismissive waved hand relegating her to an unimportant thought.

XXX

Caspian selected one of the many pages of supply lists brought to him by Glenstorm, debating. There were only so many raids his troops could pull off successfully, and their numbers were slight compared to the might that Miraz could bring to bear... And even if Caspian’s own army quintuppled in size, if the entire Council of Lords actually put their might behind Miraz - which they would if Caspian made too much of a bother, too soon. No, he needed to eat away, erode at Miraz’s foundations, while keeping his own army supplied, armed, and dig in deeper at the How. Sighing, it was a headache inducing quandary, or at least a conundrum that made the headache he had been struggling with for months so many times worse. Perhaps if he pounded his head into the wall, the headache would abate? The Shrew’s presence didn’t help, the air she put off was just another problem he had to cope with. Making a face as he gave up rubbing his forehead with one hand, he threw a glance in the Shrew’s direction - he still didn’t know her name, and he didn’t want to, he scowled - it would please her to no end if he bashed his brains out. Probably would have her giggling and clapping, at least if her hands were unbound.

“Are you going to continue shifting about and huffing like a fussy two year old? I’m trying to sleep,” his bane grumped from beneath his cloak.

Four days, four days he had been more than accommodating to her. She was his _captive_ , and even if she didn’t know anything about where she was, she had to know _something_ of general value. Yet finding anything out from her was nigh impossible, he had an easier time carrying on meaningful conversations with walls and gaining responses from them. However, he was tempted to smack her around a bit more, see if that would loosen her tongue. Not that it had so far the other times he attempted it, but trying again couldn’t hurt. Or maybe it could, her constitution was so weak she had blacked out on him quite a few times during his initial questioning. Which, unfortunately, meant he wouldn’t even get a bit of amusement tossing her about either. Clearly, she was a pampered creature, even more so than some of the whores who held titles if she couldn’t handle such a light beating. Biting his tongue, Caspian refrained from granting her the satisfaction of a fight - he didn’t have the energy, and his temples yet throbbed.

Caspian was curious about that - just where did the creature come from that she had never been properly cowed? Eegland, Urope, Finch-lay, Loon-dune - these were odd names. Mayhap these kingdoms would welcome the Narnians? Truly, Caspian wasn’t fond of the entire war business, if he had his way, it wouldn’t have ever been an issue at all. But, it had to be done. His uncle had fired the first shots to the war, dozens of bolts tearing through his bed during a time he was supposed to be asleep, yet was instead hiding in his armoire, the secret passage he had discovered as a boy protecting him for long enough to see what had been his intended demise. Miraz ordered those shots fired, that volley would be countered, and Caspian would see it through to the end. With Miraz’s head on a pike. Even so, it was a pleasant thought to think of a way to shelter the rest of his people, now that the Narnians were under his protection...besides, where else would he have gained an army if it weren’t for the Narnians? Professor Cornelius had always taught him on a wide range of subjects before his death, including the forbidden topics of Narnian customs, and further than that - how to find them. Up until Caspian had needed an army, he wouldn't have bothered with them, though he had, once or twice, entertained the notion (while thoroughly in his cups) that when he took his throne at the Telmarine customary age of grand inheritance when he turned twenty-five, he would enact a policy courting Narnians to return to the kingdom's fold. When sober, back then, he of course dismissed such thoughts as silly day dreams born of too much drink. Yet, now, those thoughts and promises were all that had drummed up support from the people exiled from their own land. It was a shame that Miraz's current favourite Pruniprismia had managed to bear his uncle a son... Unfortunate for Caspian, when in a few short years he could have been on his throne and ensured Miraz's loyalty by holding his son captive. Too bad really, after Miraz was dealt with, Caspian would no doubt have to kill his cousin just to make certain of things.

Pressing his forehead into his palm, Caspian let out a short growl, his mind too busy at work as light strobed and flickered for a few moments, the pain deep shafts that burrowed into his brain - such a typical thing since leaving Castle Telmar.

“Again with the noise making - _some_ people are busy trying to be miserable and sleep here, you know,” came her griping from his pallet, and this time Caspian gave her an irritated glower, and saw that she had bundled up in the thick green black wool of his cloak, until just her nose and frightfully bright blue eyes were showing. Eerie things made his skin crawl.

“All you do is sleep,” he snapped at her.

She huffed, "Well if someone hadn't been so slap happy and beaten the stuffing right out of me, I wouldn't need to heal so much! Besides," peeking more of her face out, busted lips showing, mottled bruises darkening the pale skin of her face, "it's not like there's anything for me to do. You haven't untied my hands yet."

Her strange, very fair skin still showed far too much of the evidence of his blows, even though they had been bare taps in his opinion. Turning around, leaning his elbows on his desk, "You could still service my men. That would be something for you to do."

Dripping fervent disdain and sarcasm, eyes rolling heavenwards, "Oh Mr. High And Mighty, please don't promise such great rewards, otherwise I fear I'll start to like you!"

"I do not care if you like me or not, woman, I am not here to make friends. I am trying to lead an army in a war," letting his head fall back, eyes closed, mentally ceding a point to her in their little contest of wills.

Rustling as she moved around, "What is this war about anyway? You said something about someone named Miraz, and you mentioned being a prince. Are you really so splendid that you think you're more qualified to lead than this other man?" More movement, more rustles, "Because from where I'm sitting, you don't seem worthy at all - what kind of leader beats someone for no reason?"

"I barely even touched you," grunting. "And it was for a reason, if you were a spy I had to find out what you knew."

Quiet stretched for awhile and he thought she may have fallen back asleep, "So you believe me finally? Then you should let me go. I just want to go home, Caspian."

"If you are a spy, you are either very good, or very bad, at it, that is what I think." Finally opening his eyes to look at her, his head lolled to the side, ear pressed to the top of his shoulder, "Where is this Eegland and Urope? What are the troop capabilities? Are they hostile? Do they seek to invade?"

"I told you, it's England and Europe. Europe's a continent, with many countries. England is an island nation, and frankly they wouldn't want this place at all - it’s filthy and terrible. Just like you," it sounded worn out, nothing more than a reflexive bit of baiting. For a moment Caspian worried that he may have actually done her real harm, she shouldn't be so tired still, and she shouldn't sound so weak. "Besides, they have their own wars to deal with, why bother with a bunch of ingrates like you?"

Groaning Caspian got up, deciding to think about his supply lists in a little bit and went over to her. There was a tiny cringe from her when he was close enough to touch her, but she hid it well. Reaching out, Caspian tugged at the cloak, trying to get a look at her state. Her chin came up like she was about to resist, but his look of warning hopefully got through enough for her to realize she better not push him right now. No protests came from her until he started to unbutton her shirt to see if there was heavy bruising or not - if it was only faint, he knew he wouldn't have to worry, but if it was too dark it could mean internal bleeding. If so, then it could explain her exhaustion and weakness.

"What're you doing?" straining against his grip, struggle beginning.

"Cease your resistance," focusing on the small buttons and holes - he'd never seen their like before, and they were difficult to unhook due to their size.

"Then stop trying to undress me," whacking at his shoulder with her bound fists.

His eyes skipped up to hers, dismissing her, "You do not have anything I have not seen before. Stop fighting, I have no interest in bedding you. It would be a waste of time, probably catch something nasty from you anyway."

Her bottom lip trembled in leashed fury and no small amount of fear, "Then why are you taking my clothes off?"

Frowning when he saw what lay beneath her shirt - she wasn't wearing a corset, just some odd scrap of cloth over her breasts. "Assessing damage. You should be stronger than you are, more recovered. Not so tired." Out came his dagger, and he proceeded to cut the rest of her shirt off. There were yellow and black and purple mottled bruises everywhere. Chewing his lip, Caspian noted that there were no scars on her at all, just the harsh contrast of contusions and fair white skin. "No wonder you are such a bitch," mumbling.

" _Excuse_ me?"

"You have never been disciplined properly, look at you," jerking her around so he could eye her back, running a hand over it, startled at how very soft her flesh was, "smooth as the ass of a babe. Not a single scar. Hmph. Again, no wonder you are such a bitch, you never learned your place."

It was whispered, "No one _whips_ their children to teach them. A few switches or slaps, but nothing to _scar_. It's barbaric!"

Caspian's fingers dug into her shoulder, even as he continued his survey, "You are awfully fond of that word. And is it not what you refer to me as? Your people are soft and useless it seems, only good with words." But her skin was very soft, like silk beneath his callused fingertips as he continued to stroke it, finding the texture to be curious, much like the contrast of his skin tone against hers. "You saw the evidence upon my own flesh anyway, unless you thought I was born that way?"

To that she had nothing to say, but then, "You were whipped?"

"Of course," grunting as he pressed on a nasty bruise to gauge her reaction. The muscle didn't feel spongy and that was good, but from her sharp cry it had hurt. "Twice a week, more if I was being difficult, atop my daily training regimen," so far it was the only bruise that may bear watching, and Caspian continued, pushing on her shoulder so her back muscles tightened. "It helps one become a man." She said something but he couldn't have heard her correctly, "What did you say?"

"I said I was sorry," a bit louder.

Puzzled, he paused in his examination, attempting to gauge what he could of her expression, "Why?"

Her face turned to look at him, "No one should be beaten like that. It's cruel. It...it must've hurt a lot. So...I'm sorry you went through that."

Not liking the feeling her words brought up, Caspian pressed another contusion, punishing her for pitying him. Finished with his inspection, Caspian wrapped her back in his cloak. Brushing his hands off, he started to turn away, saying, "Your wounds are not great, you should be well enough in a while. In fact you are just fine as is, so maybe it is time to find a use for you."

Huddling into the cloak, "Um...hello. You shredded my clothes."

"So?" picking the sheaf of paper up, finger sliding down the side of the words as he mentally checked off each thing.

"So - I'm naked," huffing.

"You are covered, so why should you care?" the wood of the camp chair squeaked as he sat heavily. "And we are alone in my chambers, so again - no reason for you to worry." Not that he gave a damn. Besides, maybe feeling exposed would break down more of the barriers she had up. She had to have a use, had to have information. Otherwise she would not have been found so close to the line of his camp.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: There are dark themes, characters are far darker than those portrayed in movie and book. They are also not necessarily what they seem at first, no matter how reprehensible. I am by no means excusing any behaviour as acceptable, but this is a story, one that was dark from its very inception. An exploration of the darkest reaches I could think of at the time, while posing the question if the attacker (who was, himself, extremely abused and grew in a society where this was considered normal) can reform and if that attacker can seek to heal the damage he has caused.**
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> GIANT WARNING: This chapter contains graphic rape and its aftermath.

Two  
XXX

Caspian jerked awake, sweating profusely yet feeling frozen, sick to his stomach, and dry mouthed. Reaching for his cloak he realized he no longer had it. Frowning, he checked the position of his captive, and saw a small bundled up lump to the side. Sleeping in a corner - as usual, no movement, nothing to indicate it was anything but a pile of undone laundry. Not even her feet stuck out from the cloak. Six days, and she no longer yelled at him randomly. But she didn't speak either. And still - she slept so much. But he had so many more important things to worry about than some girl who gave him lip. Even...even if some of the things she said were a bit funny just for sheer creativity and the audacity to speak to him in such a manner. No one spoke to him like that, no one. To say even a small portion of the things that had passed her lips, directed at him, would have resulted in death. 

Sighing, Caspian shifted, shaking off the effects of his nightmare. It was always the same one. The one where he saw his mother beaten to death for laying with a man who was not his father. What did it matter that she hadn’t been left a choice as to whether she lay with that man or not? Just as his father hadn’t been left one by the Council of Lords. There were inviolate rules that dictated everything a true Telmarine noble must do, and those rules also bound the rulers, not just the Lords. Shuddering, Caspian rolled over, swiping his hand over his face. His mother had been so beautiful, and she had been kind. To have seen her bloodied and broken, stripped of her clothes publicly, her jewelry and finery ripped from her in the expected, demanded, display, and then pulverized... If he let himself, Caspian could remember how soft and loving her embrace could be, her fingers running through his hair - she had been so, so beautiful...

 _No_ , she had been weak. Weak like him. He carried her taint in his veins, a noisome softness that prevented him from acting like a proper man. When a true Telmarine would have dragged everything of any merit from a captive by now, Caspian had only learned that his ‘guest’ was from some far off place that he didn’t recall ever seeing on any maps. That is if those places were even real. He was worthless for the fact that he actually believed her, especially after how lazy he had been in prying the information from her. So that must mean Caspian was as weak as his uncle claimed, unfit to rule, for he couldn’t even bring himself to toss the girl to his men. Or take her for himself until he was finished with her. If he couldn’t do that, then how would he manage the Council of Lords, who were the most diabolical and cunning aristocrats that Telmar could produce? 

This was a fact that Caspian had sought to hide his whole life, that he had inherited not just his mother’s features, but her disposition, the amount of Krispen the Mighty’s blood she carried was thick, exacerbating what his father had passed on to him as well. 

Face tensing, Caspian bit his lip, gnawing it as he searched for his mask, knowing it must be put in place. It had protected him for all these years, it was the only wall that separated him from the Lords and their Sons. It _must_ be in place, the consequences would be far worse than fatal if it wasn’t. To be Telmarine was to be strong, ruthless, without mercy for anyone or anything, to expect nor give it to another being no matter who it was. To take things from others, make it one’s own, claim it, defend it, destroy it - to own whatever could be snatched by might or cunning. Inside, Caspian wasn’t like that, he wanted nothing more than to be left alone to read or ride Destrier, to move figurines across boards in the complex games that chess could only pretend to mimic. Games of Warchance, with the complex rules and maths that dictated what sort of unit could be used in a particular manner, over mockup terrain, it was amusing, but it was also training for the Sons and the Lords, keeping their wits and understanding of logistics sharp. That was how Caspian wished to spend his time, in a room stacked floor to ceiling with books, in a comfortable chair, a tankard of good dark beer or one of decent red or mulberry wine at his elbow, fact checking histories or sciences, simplly absorbing the information. For all that, and more, he had to wear his mask, as the Council and their many Sons, all thought him weak for such weak indulgences along with his thickened blood.

The Narnians at least hadn’t seemed to mind his failings, his weaknesses, because thus far they hadn’t seen it. They hadn’t a notion as to how he was supposed to act, they only grasped at the hope he offered them, a breathy, reedy thread of air gasped for when locked in a box with only pinpricks of fresh to grant a prayer for survival. Under Miraz, under the Council’s dictates, what Narnians currently lived, if Caspian had died the night his cousin was born, the Narnians would all be slaughtered, hunted down to every last centaur foal, Fox kit, Bear cub, minotaur calf... Caspian’s weaknesses were overlooked, studiously ignored if anyone took any notice, because hope and desperation blinded them to his copious failings. All they could see because of that blinding, was a leader, with a title, who gave direction, a banner to rally around because there wasn’t anyone else to follow, a general who may just be able to do better than their disparate and piecemeal protection of their hidden burrows, valleys and homes. 

Then again, they still weren’t getting anywhere even with him leading. Last autumn Caspian had fled his home, riding Destrier at speed for forests that the superstitious avoided unless in a large company of heavily armed men. In the dead of night, with only the constantly packed travel pack to his name, his hastily donned gear, and whatever else he had been able to grab on his way down to Destrier’s box stall, Caspian had rode out under heavy pursuit. Hastily grabbed, the Queen Lucitana’s hunting horn had been an afterthought, shoved into the packed saddlebags that had sat at the bottom of his armoire ever since Professor Cornelius’ suspicious death several years prior. With those things and what little else he had been able to grab, his hunting falcon Zaroleah left behind much to his chagrin, and with reckless abandon drove Destrier through a deadly night ride. More deadly though would been if he had remained behind, and all he had claimed as his own would suffer. And still, in spite of Caspian’s arrival, the Narnians had done little more than sting, irritate, and pilfer like common thieves nagging at the Telmarine military complex, the risks they undertook as meaningless as spitting in a strong wind.

And no matter all of those reasons, that warring expectation and desire, Caspian was left a creature outside of Telmarine and outside of Narnian... Over the last months, almost a year now, that he had been struggling in this civil war - both internal and literal - Caspian had grown...fond...of the Narnians. As much as the Telmarines were his people, his foundation, his rearing, the Narnians were more to his liking. At least they were upfront with their disagreements. There was none of the conniving and backstabbing he was used to. No false trust, either a Narnian accepted, or they denied, very simple.

...Still...after, as a seven year old, Caspian had seen his own father’s fists rain down bloody death on his lovely mother, Caspian had (rightly) surmised he must hide any of those tendencies. It was a lesson echoed by the Professor, by his father, by every observation and experience in his life. Anger was the strongest emotion he allowed himself to show, one that was acceptable to all sides, even if he felt fondness at times. So Caspian had perfected the art of being cool to the point of frigidity compared to his own kind. Even so, his weak nature showed itself by the fact that he wasn’t using his army up in any way necessary to regain his power. Or in the fact that he was lying on his pallet, chilled, while a captive was rolled up snugly in his cloak. And, ultimately, if all of them died as Miraz’s army overwhelmed them, it would all be due to the fact that Caspian was weak hearted like his mother.

Closing his eyes, the mask still cracked and not really covering him with its invisible protection, Caspian willed himself to return to sleep. He couldn’t handle all this thinking, but just as he thought he may begin to drift, there was a soft sound distracting him. It had taken him several moments to notice it, as it was very quiet, barely noticeable, and constant as a regular breath. Sitting up, cocking his head quizzically as he attempted to identify it, and then he finally recognized it for what it was. His captive was crying, muffled and low, just on the edge of hearing. Caspian hadn’t realized she was awake. The sound was disturbing in some fashion, making his stomach feel sick, like he had accidentally ingested a bit of poison he was unfamiliar with. Hollow, worn out, devoid of strong emotion beyond empty despair. It was as though her world had come to an end, yet she continued on. That was what it sounded like, the air creeping and crawling up and down his spine under his linen shirt like nails whispering over chalkboard. But her world _wasn’t_ at any sort of end - she was relatively safe, she was fed, she wasn’t being beaten within an inch of her life! Many women would kill to be so well off...if they could find the backbone to actually take that kind of action. Carefully Caspian crept to her side, curious, wanting to understand this foreign concept...

Was the place she came from so different than his, a world so divergent from his own that the treatment she received was so grisley?

Her bound hands were tucked under her chin, eyes scrunched closed, her entire body balled up and folded in on itself, his cloak wrapped tightly about her small, shivering form, while the occasional hitching sigh or pant being the only visible indication of her crying. Slower, with greater care, each movement forward silent, Caspian craned his neck to see if there was more of her visible beneath the hanging fold of cloak. It was, barely. Lips torn and bloody, ragged from healing blows and continued chewing them to stay quiet, salt tracks left odd clean crusty cuts through the grime and dirt that had been ground into her skin. As he watched, another fat drop blinked from between clumped eyelashes, and slitted lids. Never in his life had Caspian seen something like this, and it suddenly made him irrationally angry.

Caspian had been veritably _kind_ to her, yet this chit thought it wasn’t _good_ enough! Soundlessly, Caspian snarled - if that was how she repaid and viewed the quality of her care, then perhaps it should be made worse. Maybe then she would learn the value of the good things she had received. Before he could act on that impulse, she rolled over, the cloak dragging free partially from her still vaguely swollen and blackened face with its puffy eyes. Eyes that had opened, and in the flickering torchlight that he let burn even when he slept, he could see how clear and deep her eyes were. One moment they were a bright sky, the next, a deep and unfathomable ocean of spilled and sparkling sapphires. Beneath the accumulated grime and bruising of almost a week without being cleaned, Caspian could so easily discern how pretty she actually was. In that split second, Caspian understood why it was that Telmarine men feared beautiful women despite the urge to take them. Comeliness could make a man do strange, odd, dangerous things, like...suddenly cease being angry. Or hold a man immobile long enough for his anger to slip away to nothing, preventing him from putting a deserving woman in her place.

It took a moment to register that she was cringing away from him, slowly, desperately wiggling until she was pressed tight to the wall, her usual verve and dauntlessness subdued but clearly struggling to come to the fore. Caspian remained frozen, prisoner, drowning in the huge blue pools of her eyes. Somewhere he recalled hearing that Archenlanders had blue eyes, at least some of them did, but he had never actually _seen_ a human with that sort of feature. Like any Telmarine, her hair was dark, but even in that feature, it was different. Hers held strange highlights, a soft hint of red and gold, even when matted and grungy, picked up even in dim light. Beyond her general shape as a woman and dark hair, that was where any resemblance to a Telmarine or Calormen ended. In the days she had been here, he had avoided looking at her directly, really looking, because women were an unnecessary distraction in war beyond the absolute bare minimum need to sate a body’s urges now and again. 

Of it’s own accord his hand rose, reaching towards her, fingers shaking, as he stared, some urge in him to touch, to see if her skin was as soft as he remembered it being from the few times he had actually felt it.

“Are you bored or something?” Her voice cut through the fog that had clouded his brain, dumping like acid, cutting through the greasy miasma that had swamped his mind. “Need to poke at me or hit me so you can have a bit of entertainment? Shouldn’t you have better things to do?”

Well...she was apparently regaining some of her customary virulence she so easily commanded the way he would order troops, it came to her so readily.

And that ugly malice lashed at him, striking Caspian full force with his guard down, and he flinched, turning away, “I have not hit you in days, not since you first arrived. Do you miss it so much that you wish to irritate me to a point you receive it again?” 

Resigned, put upon, burdened, she sighed, “Well then, if you’re going to hit me, get on with it instead of puttering about uselessly, faffing about with threats. Otherwise, bugger off, and leave me be.”

Finding it in himself, Caspian growled, “Actually, I was going to reclaim my cloak, I was cold.”

Sputters made her face twist this way and that, her soft, plump quietly mauve raspberry lips marred by pale jewel cracks and tears showing brighter strawberries in the flesh, every inch the incensed creature, “Well! I’ll have you know that I’m rather nude under this bit of wool, I _do believe_ that between the two of us - I’m the one who’s colder!”

This was familiar, Caspian could cope with this.

“And is that supposed to be of any import to me?” brow quirked as he countered. Pointing out, his tone unaffected and mild as he gestured, “You are a prisoner if you have forgotten. Your comfort is at the very bottom of anyone’s list of cares. Once you come to grasp that, things will be easier.” 

“What is it you want from me, Caspian?” voice cracking like a broken vessel on hard flooring, like a whip snapping through the air and landing violently on bare and tight flesh, all contained somehow in her tone. “I don’t know anything, and I’m obviously of little use to you, so why are you tormenting me still? Why keep me around?” As he was seeking to find his mental footing, she was drawing herself up, fear being shouldered and thrown aside like a minotaur's great shoulder plowing into a puny human to be sent flying, the cringing and fear pushed away with some strength of will that Caspian couldn’t fathom. But he did understand she was covering it all up, muscling through, by using acid as her offensive weapon. “Alright then, my needs mean nothing,” it was ground out. “And if they mean so little, then why bother continue to keep me alive in the first place? If it’s as you say, then _fine_ , as you wish, nothing matters. Not anymore, not if anything ever did!” As she used the wall to keep balance as she stood, his cloak was shrugged and dragged free, then tossed at him. In the short skirt, funny socks that went to her knees, and useless foot coverings she had been brought in wearing, she plopped back down, rolling up once more into an even tighter ball - _How does she even manage that?_ \- goose bumps rising over her skin in the cool air. “You’ve your stupid cloak so you can be warm, now go away. Or are you struggling to devise some other method to vex me for fun?” Held immobile, his cloak an inky blotch between them, as he watched her curl and curl and fold until her chin was tucked over her knees, bound wrists looped behind and over her head, breasts mashed into the tops of her thighs, all in a futile attempt to keep warm or cover herself. “I’m tired. Leave me alone...just...just go away. You’ve had your sport, you’ll get nothing else out of me.”

Swallowing thickly, Caspian eyed the cloak like it was a viper, queasy, nasty bitter bile on the back of his tongue, burning his throat. From the dark wool to the vulnerable prisoner, who somehow managed to hold power when she was so deconstructed, Caspian cursed himself a thousand, thousand times for being weak and soft. With the same care as if it really were venomous and dangerous, he picked up the cloak, still carrying hints of warmth from her, and draped it back over her, leaning close, on his knees, and he watched the silent tears that still leaked from her eyes.

Unable to stop himself, just as he was unable to keep himself from trying to press and tuck the cloak around her, his voice soft, gentle as it only was when dealing with a spooked animal, “Tell me your name.”

She didn’t budge, not a flinch, not a twitch, not even a change in breathing. Still as stone but for her breathing. Breathing that had gone slow, as though she’d shut herself up like an animal sinking deep into hibernation. From a great internal distance, “Call me whatever you want.” With that came a jerking shrug, forcing the cloak to be shed, becoming a useless mass at her back. “After all, nothing matters, just like you said.”

Confused, Caspian backed away from her, inch by inch, uncertain what to do. The power shifted this way and that, each time he thought he had a handle on the situation, it changed. Physically, he held the upper hand, but with a few cruel words, she could shove him far away, back, disarmed like a youth against several, larger, more skilled, well armed and armoured assailants. A good man would beat her for this insolence, this continued attempt of hers to wrest power from a scenario where she was to have none. That’s what a Telmarine man would do, a smart one, one who didn’t allow such a weak thing to hold any sway over him. But...what Caspian _wanted_ to do was what a weak man did. To go back to her, tuck the cloak around her more firmly, ask if she needed anything - perhaps go so far as to lift her inconsiderable weight to the protection of the pallet. Debate waged and warred in his skull, continued pain stabbing at the base of his skull, deep behind his eyes, at his temples, and driving down from his crown. Two parts of himself warred with one another as vicious and violent as any pitched battle between equal forces, clawing and raving inside his skull, uncaring of the damage it did to him. Settling on the only thing he could do without letting either side of his urges win, he did the expedient thing.

He left the room.

XXX

Caspian avoided his quarters for a day. There was enough to see to around the How, trenches needed digging, his troops needed cheering, plenty of work to go around. A bit of sparring didn’t hurt either. Seeing to Destrier, checking the hay, mucking it all clean, checking over the faithful ebony steed that had been part of his life for so very long, while the great courser snuffled and wuffed companionably, clearly pleased to see him, bumping at Caspian with his velvet nose or big head. Those were things that needed tending, his men, his mount, the defenses. Copious needs that always benefited from an extra pair of hands, an extra back put to it.

In the vast antechamber of the How, that, if it was roofless, and in a castle, he would call it a marshalling yard, a killing field, or the forecourt, it was as busy as any castle’s yard would be. Unlike in a castle, there were no buildings tucked up this way and that, it was all open air, for all intents and purposes at least, as there was no need for buildings _inside_ a roofed building in the first place. Dwarves and satyrs worked side by side at makeshift smithy forges, other Narnians with opposable thumbs mended, made, altered, chain, scale, and leather armour, driving nails and rivets through, or packing shed horse hair (or really any stiff hair from most of the Narnians, as it also sufficed) into sturdy gambesons. Every fighter needed the best gear they could find, much of it cobbled originally, some of it brought by his soldiers, but most of what was in use presently or being stockpiled, was ‘new’. When Miraz finally found the How, every single defender must have protection of some sort beyond their native flesh and bone. Even Mice had little leather jerkins, kept lightweight to account for their stature and build.

Weapons were being made, just as much as armour, arrows and bows being some of the most important, for they could easily run out. Ordered cacophony of endless preparation. _It will end when the war does, no matter the outcome,_ the dark thought coming to him as he filed one of Destrier’s hooves, removing a frayed, rough spot, all while the controlled chaos eddied and flowed through the antechamber.

A gentle clop of hooves grabbed his attention, and he looked up to see the pearl coated Morningdew approach, her head inclining towards him. “M’lord, if I may be so bold to ask, what would you like done with the spy?” she asked, the kinky dark curling gold shot of her hair throwing light, shifting and rippling as she pulled out a bag of high energy oats for Destrier.

Rubbing his temple against the top of his shoulder, he frowned, “Nothing, why?”

“Oh,” a flicker over her broad features. “Yes then, m’Lord.”

Caspian straightened, reaching out to touch her arm lightly, halting Glenstorm’s mate before she could withdraw, “Is there something wrong?” Sourly, “Has she managed to get free and is wreaking havoc?”

“No, not at all, Your Highness,” she fidgeted, her ears flicking, her whole body employed with the motion, which was an odd thing to see - centaurs were generally very calm, and hard to fluster, quite unlike the fully equine types that populated the world.

Brow rising higher on his forehead, he prompted, “But...?”

Clearing her throat, “Well, she smells frankly.” Large, clear brown eyes focused on him, her broad nose twitching, “And even you are beginning to...ah...carry her scent about with you everywhere.”

Surprised, Caspian mulled that over. Generally he bathed fully every other week, but without realizing it, he had stopped doing even his morning wipe down. His captive’s presence unsettled him to the point where feeling the weight of her piercingly empty gaze on him had caused Caspian to forgo his ablutions.

Shaking his head, he grunted, “Then I shall do something about my odor immediately, otherwise Miraz’s army will find us quite quickly if they simply follow their noses.”

Morningdew just stared at him until she realized it was a joke, A small smile answered him as she ducked her head, “I don’t think they’ve trackers quite that good, m’Lord. But, as for the girl, what would you have done?”

Massaging the back of his neck in a futile attempt to ease the tight muscles there, Caspian sucked his teeth, gaze going up to the far distant ceiling, “Throw her in a lake for all I care, just get her clean.”

Any further thought slipped away, his focus returning to preparations to go ride patrol. _After_ his bath of course. Then he would leave to oversee a nearby patrol for a few hours, his whole body itched with the lack of action, and it was time to relieve it.

XXX

Tired to the bone, exhausted, Caspian trudged back to his chambers. The patrol had been its usual bouts of violent skirmishes, a tweaks here and there, as he had been told. It was finished off by one good raid, carried out and planned as soon as he appeared. While that raid had been successful, it had only been pulled off by the skin of teeth. That signaled it was time to return to the How, the corpses of four Narnians in tow. Their loss left an empty feeling in the pit of his stomach, which meant he was growing far too attached.

Caspian vowed to rotate the Narnians closest to him out. It wouldn’t do to invest so much emotion into others. Directions like that led down long, twisting roads to further weakness, and he suffered enough from that malaise as it was. All he wanted for the moment, however, was to flop onto his pallet and sleep for awhile, uninterrupted, and away from cold camps, with their cold food and rocks digging into inopportune places. Sleep was what he would gain, with no one to bother him - and damn anyone who sought to interrupt his intended rest. Later was soon enough to see to his duties.

Nodding to Jumbletot, the Red Dwarf was sitting on a low stool near the door to his room, polishing rust from some chainmail, and Caspian entered his room. Each day he entered his room, it was odd to see the place he lay his head. It seemed foreign each time, no matter what, being nothing more than a placeholder, not particularly cozy or comfortable, but it was good enough to meet his needs. For a moment he wished to hear Zoraleah chirp and squawk customary greetings, ones he hadn’t heard in a year almost, and he fleetingly hoped his little huntress had been taken in by Inigo or Glozelle, for a fine falcon like her wasn’t so easily replaced nor trained.

After ten days of his ‘companion’s’ presence, he had become used to her presence, so much so that it barely registered. _Most_ of the time, so he didn’t really notice her until she moved. Frowning, as her location was properly marked in his mind, Caspian noted that her hands was unbound, and she was wearing one of his tunics. That wasn’t exactly acceptable, but his fatigued mind took a few more moments to process _what_ she was doing. Dark hair fell about her hunched shoulders in waves, his tunic far too long for her, where seams would fit his shoulders properly, the sides almost hung to her elbows, and it was almost a dress on her...as she was _hunched over his lists and missives, holding paper and her voice a mild susurration in whispers clearly reading what was on those pages_.

Swiftly, he was across the room, door closed tight behind him silently, and he had her by the hair, dragging her away from the vital information on his table. How _foolish_ he’d been! Complete and utter lunacy! She’d had _days_ , nay, _weeks_ to go over the information in those papers! How could he have been such a lackwit as to have left the papers out for such easy perusal rather than locking them away somewhere safe. _Ten days_ she’d had to go over it, she would know his campaign inside out, probably better than he!

Rage, fear for his people, and shame at his indiscretion, fired him and electrified Caspian like lightning striking a metal rod in a storm. Head to toe, every nerve was alive with anger, requiring action of him. His fist slammed into her abdomen, doubling her over, making her heave before she could scream, nothing coming of it. But Caspian held her up with his other hand, twisting it violently deeper into her chestnut mane.

“You _are_ a spy!” the accusation snarled and mangled by his anger, and he hoisted her up in the air by her neck, slamming her several times against the wall for good measure. “To think I was going to let you go soon!” an admission he hadn’t realized was truth until he said them, torn from him against his will. Snarling, into her face, releasing her hair, Caspian yanked his dagger from its sheath, and pressed it to a spot near one of her wild, clear, terrified eyes, as they rolled with shock and pain, “So girl, I had been correct - you are a very good spy. Very good indeed.” Barely registering the tears that were welling in her eyes, all Caspian could see was a mass of different images, each separate, each a different source of input. _This_ was why he couldn’t be weak - it was easy to take advantage of kindness. Digging the point of his dagger in just enough for blood to break free, bright carmine drops bloomed as he dragged the tip down in a short, shallow cut, meant to cause pain as it sliced lightly over nerves. “Now - who sent you and why? What did you find out?” 

Skittering and scraping bare feet on stone sought purchase and stability, her hands wrapped tight around his forearm, like small vises, gaining just enough purchase to keep some blood flowing to her brain. Seeking purchase and anything to relieve the pressure he was exerting on her delicate neck, “Cas-cas,” choking on his name. Caspian could feel the muscles of her throat flexing, beginning to cave as he kept the force in his grip up. Reminding himself he couldn’t gain answers that way, Caspian forced himself to ease up just enough and to allow her feet the ability to take some of her weight. She still hung onto his arm, gagging and gasping, eyes bulging, “Wanted - to do...s-s-someth-hing. H-h-lp...Nn-a-rr-naarn...”

“ _Help_? You want _help_?” each syllable bit off viciously as he growled. “There is no help for you other than to your _grave_ , cunt. Now it just depends on how much you want it to hurt before I kill you.”

Panting, hanging limp other than the hold she maintained on his forearm, not bothering to struggle, “Narn-narnians. Help - want-wanted to. _Bored_ \- l-lllone-ly.” 

At the edges of his towering wrathful rage, confusion tweaked in response to her statement, which made no sense. Switching his line of questions, “Tell me who sent you.”

She flinched, it was reflex, but she just stared at him as he let his blade bite her skin for another inch, while she sobbed for breath, tears pouring like rain from her stormy eyes, “Told you - nobody. Said every-everything, you craven barbarian.”

All of the fatigue of the day mixed dangerously with the frenzied madness that twisted and coiled inside him over being taken in by her lies and innocent face. It was the final straw, the last thing to shatter every ounce of control that held him to any course of action. Roaring, he threw her, really and truly threw her, dropping his dagger, levering her in the air and threw her at his pallet, where she struck the wall with a resounding crack against her spine. Somehow she had twisted just enough to avoid slamming her head into the wall, but she still landed in a slump, dazed.

Enunciating the word, clipped and ugly, “Barbarian.” Stalking towards her, chest heaving, Caspian unbuckled his jerkin and sword, tossing them carelessly to the side. “I shall show you what real barbarism is.” She began to skitter away, wits gathered enough for it, and Caspian lunged, pouncing, grabbing hold of her wrists as he landed, straddling her. Uncaring of how cruel his grip was, he forced her wrists together tightly so he could hold them in one hand, and shoved her arms above her head. “I should have done this when you were first brought - shown you your place properly!”

Under him, she heaved, yanking and jerking against his hold, face turned aside, eyes clamped closed, and behind him, her legs were flailing, trying to kick his back with her knees. It was futile, completely and inarguably, while the awareness of her fate etched every line of her bearing. The sight of her like that was battering his mind, great drums of noise and hammering inside his skull, but he easily sat back, holding her thighs immobile, as he hitched the hem of his shirt up over her legs and waist so he could cup her mound. Closing his own eyes, Caspian fondled and touched her roughly, her scream of pain when he shoved two fingers inside, testing the dry and tight channel, tore into his eardrums. She was unbearably tight around his digits, a distant part of him adding that up - she’d never had a man before. Inside, somewhere deep where he didn’t like to tread, he winced, knowing he couldn’t do it, not like _this_. Not when he could see her face, or when her sobs were right there directly beside his ear as he hunched over her. Raising himself up, Caspian brutally flipped her onto her stomach, hand curling around the back of her neck at the base, forcing her face into the straw bedding. Fumbling one handed at the ties to his trews, Caspian maintained his tight hold on her still with one hand. Once his manhood was free, his fingers drove back into her, his touches harsh and jerky. He needed her loose enough to fit him at least somewhat, and with how tight she was, he wouldn’t reap any satisfaction at all if she wasn’t.

“Pl-please stop Caspian,” muffled and broken, the plea gouged at his brain, “Please - Caspian...please.”

He couldn’t say anything in response, sitting on the backs of her thighs while her lower legs kicked and beat at the pallet, upper body jerking, and he clenched his teeth. There wasn’t anything _to_ say, he’d already said it. It was time to do what a proper Telmarine would have done long ago, and Caspian doubled over, pressing his face into the back of her shoulder, hand leaving her sex to work at his own in an attempt to remain hard despite the way her voice was thundering in his head. It was his name on her lips that did it, and he knew he should have never told her his name. Cursed forefathers and damned Aslan - Caspian _still didn’t even know **hers**_. 

Biting his lip Caspian moved to fit his hips between hers, angling them so he could thrust inside of her. Groaning as he forced his way forward, inch by inch, he had to brace his cock with his free hand, because she was clenching, a last fruitless attempt to keep him out. Panting in her ear, her heat was dry, barely moist enough, and he knew the friction would burn and chafe if he didn’t do something about it. A scream wracked through her form under him as he continued to press his body into hers, invading, while she jolted and bucked beneath him in pain. She was so insufferably _tight_ , and he needed to do something about the dryness, he _needed_ her wet enough or this would be as bad for him as for her, a completely useless endeavor. Joined, Caspian took a moment to suck his fingers sufficiently moist before slipping his free hand underneath them. Holding himself still for the moment, Caspian rooted about for the tender ridge of her clit, searching out the tight bundle of nerves that was a woman’s pleasure. Slowly rolling it and tugging, Caspian waited her out, her body saying one thing, her sobs and wails that turned to quiet agony filled whimpers, saying another.

Releasing her wrists - she couldn’t do any harm in this position, and Caspian wanted to use that hand for something else other than keeping her from flailing - Caspian pushed her hair from her neck. The bare column, clean, and strangely speckled with a few pale brown flecks like those that were more plentiful over her cheek, he growled his body’s needs making themselves _quite_ apparent. It had been far, far too long since he last sate himself. Unable to contain the urge, Caspian bit into the meat where shoulder and neck joined, his fingers continuing their work, testing and teasing until he heard a surprised, shocked and different sound from her. Sudden realization came with the heat in his blood changing, shifting to the same intensity, but morphing into deep seated lust. Veins bulged and throbbed in his flesh, never had he felt quite so inflamed, so hungry, driven to the brink of anger and beyond, the way it all coiled back in on itself into the mutated hunger driving him. Something niggled in the back of his mind, trying to distract him as he waited for the long minutes for her body to relax into his touches. But as soon as she was wet enough, then her punishment would begin. 

Fingers clasped and clutched at the straw and few blankets in front of her, and Caspian nuzzled the side of her face, breathing ragged while she shuddered, still shaking on the occasional sob, still feebly fighting him. Tangling his hand in her hair, massaging her scalp as well as her nub, weight pressing and balanced down on her, he couldn’t keep himself from beginning to move, she felt so good under him. Some chafing didn’t matter in light of that, even with her clamping and squeezing still, like _that_ could dissuade him. Moaning, his teeth clamped and dug back into her shoulder; she was still silkily smooth wrapped around his cock, nothing could change that fact. With some effort, Caspian tore his mouth free from her so he could lick the bruises that were still there, the faded ones and the bright, rosy red of newly born ones that would darken soon. Her body couldn’t maintain the fight any longer at the stimulation, wetness coating her sheath in short order finally, increasing the pleasure for him. What had started out as simple punishment and a way to show her who was in control, had become something else entirely.

At least, for him.

Hips rising, falling, rolling, and grinding, Caspian plunged with reckless abandon against her, hungrily nipping and licking at her. With the fist in her hair, he made her face turn enough, lifting her head back so that he could run his tongue over the bloodied wound from the corner of her eye, the coppery salt mixing with her tears and the taste of her freshly bathed skin. Rapidly his orgasm approached, a tidal wave that couldn’t be resisted, his testicles tightening and tingling, the build deep in back driving him to strain, pressing harder, faster, cursing in her ear as he neared the inevitable completion. Ramming his tongue into the canal in a crude mimicry there of what he was doing with his body, fingers still working over her surely abused and sore pearl, Caspian felt it coming. Nerves danced, shivering like lightning and his length swelled, twitching rapidly as he released, mouth returning to her neck and clamping down hard enough to break skin. Marking her, Caspian kept his body held deep and tight as he lept from the edge of orgasm, pressed with abusive force to the mouth of her womb, he crushed her much smaller body down into the pallet, completely covering her with his form. When he was finally finished, well and truly satiated, he pulled out roughly, then flipped her over once more, this time nestling his hips between her thighs so she could feel his spent cock, could know that in just a few moments, it would be ready to claim her, own her again.

She wouldn’t even look at him.

Taking hold of her chin, Caspian tilted her head towards him as he let most of his weight pin her with his hips, the rest balanced on his elbow. “Now, who are you?”

“S-s-susan P-p-pevesie,” stuttering, her fists balled ineffectually at her sides.

Progress. He should have done this earlier, really. “Where are you from?”

“Finchley,” the oft repeated answer choked.

He opted to let that slide for the moment, it wasn’t particularly important. “Who sent you?”

“No one, I told you, no one, a thousand times, no one sent me,” whole body going limp with resignation, awaiting further abuse. She was panting and trembling the way a small, frightened bit of prey would when held frozen and defenseless in the jaws of a predator.

“Who sent you?” repeating the question.

Her hands fluttered up, weakly pushing at his shoulders, no strength or tension in the touch, it was like light breeze, all of her muscles trembling in reaction to her situation. “No one, no one sent me! I don’t know how I got here, I don’t even know where here is!”

The sobbing was starting again, and Caspian didn’t like it, it made him feel sick inside, touching the weakness he kept hidden.

Jaw setting, Caspian clamped his hand in her hair, relinquishing her chin, twisting and pulling, so that her shoulders were forced to lift from the ground as he bent her head back, raising her chest under him with the motion. “What were you doing with my papers?”

“The Narnians - trying to, trying to do _something_ other than sit around, to help, anything,” it was weak, her frightened blue eyes rolling so that the whites showed.

“ _Why_?” snarling at her.

“Bored, lonely, nothing to do, I’m going crazy, I’m going crazy, mad, all alone, doing nothing,” mewling, her tiny hands shoving at his face and shoulders, and he just knocked them aside with a jerk of his chin when her hand pressed at his face.

Unmoved, Caspian allowed her to push at him otherwise. In return, he would push her somewhere else. His prick had been rapidly filling with blood once more, Caspian shifted, thrusting back into her, a groan breaking free from him - she was so much slicker with his spilled seed coating her insides. Eyes that had scrunched closed snapped open in horror, pain, and shame, flushing over her pale skin even as fresh bruises were forming all over her. Rolling his hips, Caspian ground against her sex, while her look bored into him, until her hands came and covered her face, as though she couldn’t even bear the sight of him.

Lips trembled, cracked, still invitingly plump. Drawn into his arousal again, she felt so utterly blissful wrapped around him, under him, her soft body welcoming no matter how much it tried to reject him. Caspian’s mouth covered hers and he pried her hands from her face, she _hadn't looked_ at him. _Really_ looked at him, and it scorched Caspian to a cinder when she did. Destroyed, laid bare, disgusting... Barbaric. Craven. Weak. Vile. Disgusting. Every hateful word she had ever said to him, was true, that’s what speared him, smashed him, rendering him to base nothingness. Then, managing to roll over finally, her back presented itself to him, and he knew without a doubt he would gain no more from her. Shaking, Caspian backed away, unable to accept or understand what he was feeling. And then he did something even more cowardly than tremble in fear when he was the one with all the cards - he fled.

XXX

A different pallet, made up of nothing more than a few spare cloaks and a saddle blanket he had found, in a hidden, tucked away corner of the How, Caspian lay. Elusive rest dodged, slipping from grasping fingers each time he reached out to claim sleep for his own. No amount of stilling his thoughts worked, no amount of deepened, counted breaths, nothing. Rolling over, Caspian stared at the wall, the sounds of the How and his army, busy as worker bees, the troops’ needs being tended. What was wrong with him? How could he not rest with the surety of repetitious noise lulling him down with its steady drone? 

...Caspian couldn’t get the feel of her skin out of his head. 

...Worse, neither could he banish the sounds of her soul rending pleas from the personal and private space of his mind.

Pressing his face into calloused palms, scrubbing at his cheeks, his head, his forehead, as though he could wipe her away, “Who are you Susan? Why do you plague me? From whence do you come to vex me so?” It was the first time he had uttered her name. It was such an alien one, somehow elegant in its strange sounding simplicity.

With a shudder, Caspian lay flat, arms wrapping around himself, seeking at least that steadying surety. Carefully he sought to take stock of himself. Worriedly, he realized that he was showing further signs of weakness - if his flight from his room afterwards, if his hiding here in a cubbyhole like a hare gone to ground weren’t enough proof of that, there was the sick roiling feeling that had him clutching his stomach off and on. Beyond that, there was worse, and he knew he was showing further signs of his weakness, of that evil thing that only peasants could afford to have. It marked him as prime prey for any decent and right thinking Telmarine. Swallowing the bitter bile taste in his mouth, Caspian recalled what his father told him about all that.

When a man found himself too comfortable with a woman - particularly beautiful women, as they were a poisoned honeypot to tempt and draw even the wary - he would easily leave himself open for manipulation and sickness of the head. A woman could make a man do anything with soft words and touches, beguiling him with her charms, a look in her eye, a whispered instruction with just the right kind of inflection...and a man would fall into that pit, allowing himself to be ruled by such a woman. Women had a power over men that was indefinable, uncontrollable, and even the careful application of training was no failsafe, no full warding against such a disease. Good training, properly applied, consisted of beatings, psychological controls, and upbringing, keeping a woman from knowing forbidden skills...these reduced the risks, ensuring that a woman knew her place. Yet there was a certain point after a man had fallen to the huntress with her tender touches, where a man couldn’t turn back, couldn’t free himself with any ease or retreat to safer ground. 

If a man found himself in such an unenviable predicament, he had two choices: Kill the woman or suffer the malady.

Fingers scrambling, twisting and locking in his tunic, Caspian listed to himself the dangers, the strikes against a man in such a position. An inability to put the woman in her place, a desire to give her things... These were just more evidence, symptoms of spreading weakness gnawing at the foundations of manhood. Because right then, more than anything, his only true desire was to return to his room, and tell her. Tell Susan something, anything, he wasn’t sure _what_. But inside, riddled by the termites of his mother’s weakness and his father’s disease, he hurt in a dull ache that left him wanting to void his stomach, everything all tied up in knots. He had been unable to eat the thick stew Morningdew had brought him for dinner, no matter how delicious it had smelled. And even then, Caspian, if he could right that moment, he would want Susan over him, beneath him, wanted to have her breath in his ear, sighing, not as he took her viciously, but from sharing the same pleasure as him. Atop that damning list, the things he knew, the things any good man knew - the need, the slavering and raving need to strike her, to make her cease bringing such strange feelings to the forefront of his mind.

Hands in his hair, Caspian banged his head on the floor repeatedly, rolling to his stomach, wishing to drive all of it away. Caspian couldn’t think straight, couldn’t sleep, and was struggling in a constant war, one that had been waging and finally broke surface, increasing in its diabolic torture a thousandfold. That battle drove him to get up, to rake shaky fingers through his hair, re-situating it. Like a creature bewitched, Caspian made his way back to his room, and stared at the door. Jumbletot had been replaced by Hitastik, and the dwarf didn’t look at him oddly at all. Sometimes it was as if the Narnians did more than forgive him his strangeness, always gracefully overlooking it, never judging.

Clearing his throat softly, “Hitastik, has there been much noise coming from inside?”

If the Red Dwarf knew anything about earlier, there was no indication of such knowledge, and just smiled, “No, Your Highness, quiet as usual. Girl’s not very loud it seems. Exceptin’ when you two are having a row.” _That_ garnered a response from the dwarf, chuckling with good humour. “You know, the missus and I used to go at it like that. All that yelling and insulting...ah, good times.”

Masking his wince, Caspian merely nodded, “Yes, I suppose so.”

"Well then m'Lord, unless there's aught you need, you should go on ahead and get some rest. I hear it was a rough day out there..."

Nodding, Caspian forced himself to grasp the handle of his door, sweat forming and dripping down his spine. Opening the door gradually, he slipped inside. Susan was huddled up, always huddled, always in a ball, always sleeping - what was wrong with her? And what was wrong with him for even wondering that? On near silent feet he approached, kneeling next to her. In the hours since he assaulted her, she looked the same, ravaged from head to toe, but there was an empty bowl not far from her, so that was _something_. With shaking fingers he pushed some of the hair that had fallen in her face away, doing his best to not disturb her. Her hands were tucked between her legs where she was sleeping, as though the pressure would ease the pain of torn flesh. By the looks of it, she had been put through a meat grinder, her tender skin covered in flaming bright bruises, and midnight dark ones, patterning her skin like some macabre animal's pelt. There was crusted blood along part of her cheek, and with a shock Caspian's weak nature tore down everything else, forcing himself to repress a sob at the sight of it, no matter that he didn’t understand _why_ he felt that way.

Bending over her, closer, Caspian found himself pressing his lips gently to her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair. Susan whimpered forlornly in her sleep, and Caspian froze, not wanting to wake her. Waiting until she settled back down, he pulled away, then made sure to cover her securely with his cloak. He felt uncontrolled, irrationally angry at her and at himself, paired up with wanting to _cry_. Tears were for women and small children, not for men. Yet they threatened, and as had become his custom when faced with Susan and all that she made him feel, he left.

Stopping by Hitastik, "Have a healer see to Susan and have them repair any damage done to her. And have more food brought for her at meals as well as any other needs she may have."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also, bon - don't know if you receive replies to your gracious reviews so I don't want you to think I don't notice you! They're always right after, I just don't want you to think you're being skipped over. (I'm trying to correct my other major error from FFN - clunky, copious notes and replies inside the chapter itself, etc, know what I mean?)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this is bloody long. The original chapter three was 6989. This one? Hah! 16767. Yeah. You read that correctly, scrub that sleep from your eyes - sixteen thousand seven hundred sixty-seven words. As to why this chapter took so bloody long, umn, what can I say? I got distracted. When I was actively writing in the fandom (y'know, back when it was alive), I didn't do much reading because, y'know, writing was way more fun.
> 
> Also, if by any chance Autumnspice or Emteardrops (or hell, anyone else I used to yammer with a lot back when) is reading this, feel free to drop me a line. My contact details are always easy to find, and pretty much exactly the same (I'm predictable. Actually, no, I just like bein' accessible to old friends.)
> 
> Semi off topic question: Would anyone want to see a rewrite of Autumnspice's Prince of the Sea? I worked on that heavily with her, and she had given me permission to play in her version of the Narnia sandbox (hell, not to quibble, but the amount of the lore, sex, and such that I put into that, well, it sucks that FFN didn't allow co-author tags, pooh on them)... And I've actually managed to figure out a plot for it beyond our original 'pwp Caspian of the Seven Seas...' thing. 
> 
> One last questionio - seeing as this chapter's so flippin' ginormous (and since I seem to be at least doubling the size of each chapter thus far, and I can't see that trend ending) would it be better for ya'll if I split them up smaller even if that sort of alters the staggering of whose POV it is? I mean, it's not necessarily easy, the first half of this chapter's less than 8000 words long, but the end scene is the massive massive thingie...

XXX  
Three:  
XXX

Sleep...to forever sleep, to go deep into dreams and rest, a retreat that none could reach. Susan wanted to go there, to burrow and nestle into that place, to stay there forever. To sleep without end, that’s all she wished for. It was in sleep that she couldn’t be harmed, a place where no one could touch her.

No one could harm her, hurt her, touch her... 

No one, except for Caspian. 

In dreams, in that sleep, the place she fled to, had been fleeing to - he _could_ misuse her, abuse her. For it was in that dreamscape, a place closely resembling her present prison, that the dreams - no. It was there that the _nightmares_ found her. So sweet, like arsenic candies, their danger only to be realized later, Caspian would find her in that alternate place. There, Caspian, that monstrous prince, was a man made different. Moulded of flesh and blood, he was kind, he laughed, he would take her hand, tangling their fingers together to raise them to his lips, brushing a kiss there. In dreams, with that Caspian, her siblings were there, all of them working together, and there was only a distant thought of conflict that joined them together. But it was that dream - _Nightmare, no, no, no_ \- Caspian that left her quivering, wishing to be close enough to listen to his heartbeat when he slept. Games of archery, racing about, weaving in and out of the towering boughs, laughter in the air...

Dreams of a Caspian who was different, a place that was different, a _her_ that was different - they hurt. She didn’t even know why those dreams found her in sleep. It was just another way for her to be taken advantage of perhaps. Or maybe it was some way to give her a semblance of control, an escape from where she really was, by making it over into something pleasant instead of horrible.

When Susan had first awoken in this place, this...Narnia as the funny little dwarves who had come in sometimes to clean or bring food or once, a big washing tub filled with hot water for her to get clean in, called the place - when Susan had first awoken here, she didn’t know anything. Upon each time she woke, it was the same, what little she had gleaned from her time here (however long that was, she had no way to judge passing time other than hunger which was unreliable), Susan was just reminded of how this place wasn’t home. The very first times however, she had fought, struggled tooth and nail against the fact that this place wasn’t Finchley, wasn’t London, or even England. Struggle hadn’t done her a single bit of good, not against the situation, and certainly not against Caspian. Yet, for most of the time originally, as terribly as the blows had hurt, Caspian hadn’t really bothered _hurting_ her. Or, more accurately, _harming_ her, for he had worked her over well and good, Susan now recognized that it had lacked maliciousness.

Even after that, after she had ceased fighting him, yelling at him, insulting him, seeing him as the source of her being lost, Susan had still wanted to do little more than sleep. Sleep was safe, in sleep she could lose herself, deny her current reality and the looming knowledge that she was going to die. Far from home, far from anything she understood, she would die, and it would be long, agonizing, and violent. It was the anticipation that was the worst, yet, even then, eventually her body and mind couldn’t handle the stress of always expecting, waiting, fearing, whatever the prince would do next to entertain himself at her expense. However long she had been here, her body had given up the fight, as had her will, and was now just waiting. But, however much time had really passed, Susan was fairly certain it had been weeks. 

Likely it had also been several days since Caspian had -

Susan’s stomach heaved, and she scrambled to the bucket that was her only privy. It had hurt, oh god had it _hurt_ to be torn into like that. And what was worse, was, coupled with the dreams and the way her dream-self’s heart would race at the dream-Caspian’s touch, was an awareness in a small part of herself that knew it would have been enjoyable. At least if she hadn’t been so terrified, if he hadn’t been so needlessly violent and cruel, using his body to harm when she was so scared.

Time moved differently afterwards though, and before Susan could try and grasp the why of that, there was a knock on the door just before Rosetta bustled in.

A little Red Dwarf (this distinction had only been sort of explained to Susan), Rosetta came up not much above Susan’s waist, her hair braided into two plaits in a shade that reminded Susan of strawberry-carrot jam, and she had a pleasant face, generally full of smiles. Since the last time Susan had seen Caspian - _Don’t think about it, don’t think!_ \- she had always had time to drag the cloak over herself before the small, plump woman was able to get a good look at her. However, in spite of admonishments to not think, Susan was doubling over, heaving and coughing what little was in her stomach into the bucket again, which made hiding the extensive damage all over her body impossible.

With a gasp, the other woman set down the tray quickly, racing over to her, hands fluttering, the rosy face going pasty in shock, “By Aslan! Oh dear - look at you!” Voice shaking, and then impossibly strong, work roughened hands were on her, and Susan flinched at the contact, while the dwarf helped her carefully to Caspian’s chair. “Here, here, please, let me help you, m’lady.”

Repressing the shaking and the instinctive recoil, Susan gulped down air, forcing herself to relax as she gingerly sat down, “Thank you, but I’m quite alright.”

Scrubby orange brows tipped upwards above her large, round button nose, twinkling green eyes dimming, “Nonsense, dear.” A gentle hand on hers, entire bearing and expression full of mournful sympathy, “Oh, oh my - no wonder ordered for a healer to see you.”

A ‘healer’ Susan had turned away. She hadn’t any illusions as to what sort of medical knowledge these people had. What she had seen of the place - little as that was - bespoke a society that was blendings of the Middle Ages, Victorian England, and a good dose of tripe being cherry picked over the ages. Whatever a ‘healer’ here could do would no doubt do more harm than good.

Yet the Red Dwarf’s sympathy made Susan’s chin tremble with useless tears and emotion, poorly masked, as the shame of what had happened broke free, whispering, “He should have just killed me.”

“No, dear, no,” hand shifting to take her chin gently, cupping it as a mother would, her other hand smoothing Susan’s tangled hair from her face. “No dear, he’s not like that, not like that at all.”

Shifting in the chair, so much of her wanting to take refuge in the older woman’s touch, to let go and bawl as though her mother were present, Susan hissed in pain at the torn feeling that eminated from between her legs. Unbidden the anger returned, just a flash, enough to rile her up enough to find a bit of venom for her counter. “ _Really_? My body certainly begs to differ!” As fast as that, the venom left her, it couldn’t do anything to sustain her, and Susan sighed, giving up, “He’s your leader I suppose, so...so whatever you say will be coloured by that. But you can’t change what’s been done and the fact that he should have just killed me and been done -”

Sharper, firmer, “Now dear, listen to me.” The tone broke through and Susan stiffened momentarily, focusing on Rosetta. Something in the dwarf’s bearing was intense, leaning forward, like she was trying to impress something on Susan’s psyche. “He’s Telmarine, he was born it, raised it, he lived amongst them for his whole life. And Telmarines are as evil as they come! Twenty some years he grew up with them. But - he’s not _really_ Telmarine either.” Nodding once, firmly, busily shoving papers aside this way and that, the tray was brought over, she sniffed once. “He’s got Narnian blood, his forefathers were made rulers by Aslan after the White Witch was slain, and that means something. His Highness is Narnian done up in Telmarine armour, dressed up in clothes that don’t fit him, playing pretend. It fools him more than it fools anyone else, dear.” The tray scooted and scraped on the table, and Susan sucked in a sharp, pained breath, but she moved the chair too, so Rosetta had room to put the pitcher of water down, steaming bowl of stew and chewy dark bread, her meal was set out carefully as the Narnian continued briskly. “A real Telmarine would have done this to you and more the very first day, and left you begging for death, too numb to even keep breathing after.” 

Susan’s gaze was pulled from the spread of food (back home in Finchley, she wouldn’t be eating half this well she distantly noted, not with the tight rations) to Rosetta at the tone of the woman’s voice. Carefully she reached out shaking fingers to touch the back of the dwarf’s hand, not certain she was understanding what was being implied. _It sounds like she’s speaking from experience,_ blinking at her a few times while misty green eyes were turned aside, but the stubby fingered hand turned to hold onto her own long fingered one, accepting the profferred comiseration. 

“First day or the other day, what’s it matter? ‘Real’ or fake Telmarine, he’s still beastly,” Susan finally said.

Rosetta took both of her hands, standing in front of her and sighed, “He’s hurt you, oh my has he hurt you. He’s done one of the worst things someone can do to another. I’m not trying to lessen that or the harm of it. But when I say a true Telmarine would have done a thousand times worse, I _mean_ it, dearie. You’re alive, you’ll mend, and deep down, he wants your help. You’ll see what I mean, because he’s who he is, a decent man, a kind one.”

Shuddering, still queasy at the thought, as she didn’t want to even _consider_ the other things Rosetta was on about, she discarded them as utter rubbish. “If he’s supposed to be such a splendid person compared to the real Telmarines, how bad must _they_ be?”

Hands released, Rosetta motioned for her to stay put and eat, while she headed to the door. “I fear you’ll find out eventually that they’re worse kinds of animals that haunt the darkest reaches of nightmare.” Pausing by the door, “Now you just relax for a bit, I’m going to have Jumbletot order a bath for you. It’ll help with the pain, and after, I’ll give you a look over myself if you’ll let me, since the healer hasn’t seen you yet. If it’s bad enough, I’ll order one in, if that’s alright with you, sweetie?”

Focused on eating, Susan remained hunched over the table, while Rosetta remained right beside her. Screened in that way, the Narnians who brought in a surprisingly large, empty tub, were kept unaware of how their leader had treated her. Not that it really mattered to Susan, it wouldn’t have any impact on their lives, or influence how they treated her. She was, after all, a prisoner. Rosetta seemed to think it was important that the others remained ignorant. In spite of that shielding, Susan rather doubted that anyone else would find it so abhorrent - most of the Narnians would likely think it fairly normal. One thing was for certain though, the quality of her food had vastly improved since Caspian violated her, either as recompense or because he now had a ‘use’ for her. Such thoughts were forcefully stifled in Susan’s mind and she wiped the bottom of her bowl with the bread, shoving the thickly flavoured bread into her mouth, as though she could gag unspoken thoughts from being born or taking her over. 

Up until the assault, Susan had managed to grow accustomed to him. Oddly, his presence was almost comforting - solely for its regularity and the expected rhythm of what went on, not for any other reason. Hugging herself, Susan glanced around, seeking some sort of anchor now that there wasn’t one left in her microcosm reality. There was Rosetta at least, directing a female satyr to put in new straw for her bed, properly stuffed into a sack. Actual blankets were also put atop it, turning the loose pile into a place to truly rest her head. 

More mythical beings filed in and out in twos and threes. Horned minotaurs came in, a longer table fit for two people side by side to sit at, was held between the furred creatures, followed by a squat, dark haired dwarf - _Black Dwarf, Red Dwarf, is it just the hair that’s different?_ \- with a bench over his shoulder, then another Red Dwarf who carried a second bench... Others came bearing cushions to go on those benches, several racks came in, a basket for laundry... Susan remained where she was, watching from under the fall of her hair as a small basket of candles came, a thick stack of blank paper, lanterns replaced the smokey reed torches, comprised of three glass panels and a shiny piece of tin at the back to increase the light - Susan shivered as the barren world she had lived in became something else. It was cozy, almost liveable.

Last, great casks of steaming water were upended in the tub in the center of the room, and then everyone left. All save for Rosetta. 

A satisfied nod, the lock on the door was thrown to give them privacy, and Rosetta turned towards her, “Okay poppet, into the tub you go, go on, go on,” encouragingly. “The water should be a _bit_ warm, but if it’s too cold, I’ve a bucket of hot, and if it’s too cold, well, there’s another of hot.” Susan found herself being pulled up gently, urging, each step taken at her pace, the woman easily supporting her weight as she shuffled, hunched over. Short dexterous fingers helped her free of the shirt, revealing the hideously dark bruises everywhere. Particularly the nasty fist shaped one on her stomach. Hissing when she saw it, Susan winced as she could discern individual knuckle and finger marks, while Rosetta’s hand hovered over the ugly damage. “M’lady, if...not that it’s any of my business - but...but why did he hit you?” Her voice a tiny cry of horror, “This is unconscionable, I don’t approve of this _at all_!”

Bitterly as she clambered into the hot water, a moan of both relief and pain as the liquid embrace slid up her sinking body, “I’m a spy, didn’t you hear?”

“Pishaw,” an incredulous snorting laugh. “At least you’ve your humour.” Humming quietly a few bars of a song, the dwarven woman dunked a cloth into the water, a bar of toilet soap employed to make a rich lather and Susan found herself being carefully tended to with vast gentleness. “Someone should have a talk with that boy. Why, I’ve half a mind to do it m’self. But _ohhh_ those dratted Telmarine laws. Bah, whoever came up with them was as twisted as can be, or maybe dropped on their heads far too many times. Maybe they didn’t get enough hugs as children, who knows? Drat them anyway.”

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you mean, Rosetta.” Susan almost sobbed at how nice it felt to have someone be there with her gently, to touch and reach out with care when it had been so long since anyone had. “Other than idiots being dropped on their heads and having bad childhoods, that I get.”

The Narnian was businesslike in her explanations, being one of the few who apparently not just accepted the fact that Susan had no knowledge of this place (which was passing strange, since others seemed baffled by the fact she didn’t know the simplest things), but was happy to support her and share knowledge. “The Telmarine Lords and such - may Aslan curse them with infected boils upon their balls and pox upon the rest of their bodies! - believe that any sort of softness is a disease.” The curse was delivered with absentminded venom, more akin to a prayer than anything else, and distracted Susan momentarily from what the rest of what Rosetta was saying meant. “Softness, kindness, love, affection - it’s to be beaten out of their Sons, so that they’ll be ‘strong’. More like twisted, selfish little monsters, but they’re also capable of withstanding anything thrown at them, so it’s a bit of six of one, half dozen of another I suppose.” Some minty, lemony and faintly spicy lather was worked into her hair, built up from the bar, and Susan’s lips trembled on a tearful sigh while Rosetta worked. “I hear that wives are only to be kept if they can manage to produce a son, and if they don’t after the third birth...well. Their end isn’t very pleasant.”

Thankfully Rosetta was behind her and couldn’t see the tears that had begun to slip from her scrunched lids, and Susan shuddered as what the dwarf said resolved into a sort of sense. “That’s utterly inhumane...how...how can someone do something like that to another person? To dehumanize another person - it - it,” Susan stumbled over the thoughts, memory gone foggy for a moment as she struggled for analogy or reason. “‘Them’ or ‘us’, that makes sense, to go to war, to forget that the person on the other side lives and breathes the same as you... To sleep at night we say that they’re different, that they don’t do the same things we do, that they don’t want the same things. B-b-but to, even, even one’s own? One’s children? One’s parents? Why can’t people just...just be _good_?” 

She sounded like Lucy in that moment, breathless over the horror and confusion of what evils man could perpetrate upon man. Was there no end? Nations, individuals - they were so ready and willing to hate, to harm, to slay one another...and for what? Power? Land? Since mankind walked upright out of the jungles, they had craved, stolen, attacked, slaughtered to gain whatever they wanted. It led to empires and advances, civilizations that spanned continents, sciences that gave mankind the skies with metal wings, mass produced goods accessible to so much of the world, millions of books, medicines that could turn what had been for thousands of years almost certain death sentences into memories of nothing after just a few days’ rest...

Yet all this came at what cost? 

Why couldn’t the Germans just be good? Why couldn’t Spain just settle down and get along? Why did Japan decide to make such wild land grabs? Was it greed - or was it need that drove them? And here, here amongst Narnians, in this strange place that terrified, confused Susan, this place she only knew a single room of and a handful of people who described the outside (and maybe none of it was real except this room, she could just be kidnapped and locked in some bizarre place - it was a thought born of hysteria and fatigue surely) held the same stain of barbarism. Barbarism on an intimate scale, so close to see the whites of eyes, to smell its breath and feel it driving questing, cruel fingers to take and grab and cause pain. Susan couldn't conceptualize how people could live like that, no matter how well she knew history and its repeating cycle of increasingly efficient, impersonal destruction. 

Stubby, blunt fingers worked on the tangles in her hair, slicked with soapy foam, and Rosetta heaved a very, very deep sigh that sounded as though it had come all the way up from her toes. “Good is such a relative term, bobbin.” Susan thought it likely that Rosetta was shaking her head at that bit of common sense, the layers and perspectives all twisted and flipped this way and that. “What the Lords judge to be a good man, wouldn’t be here, with an army of Narnians. Such a man would’ve killed his uncle years ago, never you mind the age that an heir’s supposed to take a throne is in his mid twenties. A ‘good’ Telmarine man would have struck deals and done dirty back room trades like the heartless worms they are.” Sentiments like that made Susan want to sink into the tub, block it all out, because the concept of Telmarine ‘good’ was revolting. At least Rosetta had a point though, or Susan was fairly certain it was so. “But the lad’s not a good Telmarine Lord. He’s a terrible one by their reckoning. To us though, he’s hope. A man who works himself from dawn to dusk, bends his back to every labour that we do...” She grumbled to herself, “Though I think maybe I should twist his ear a bit, not that it’d do any good - treating a woman like that, even if it wasn’t anything near what Telmarines are known for.”

As the older woman moved around her, going so far as to begin washing Susan’s feet, Susan asked the question that had been bouncing about in her head since Rosetta began talking. “How do you know so much about them? If the Narnians have been hiding from them for so long, how can you know anything really about their culture as it stands?”

That caused Rosetta to freeze, a full body flinching shudder working through her rapidly before the dwarf took a deep breath and released it. “There’s always towns on the outskirts, places where Narnians and Telmarine farmers can be without fear. Winters are hard things, bobbin, and springs are the leanest time of all - little pockets of people who need to survive work together.” A sigh was heaved and the older woman shook her head, “For awhile their Lord ignores it or isn’t aware it’s going on, that their peasants are making nice with the kingdom’s original inhabitants, that they’re beginning to remember we’re people too... Eventually, the Lord steps in, and that means his soldiers. Little villages, farmholds, mixed enclaves - they’re destroyed, ravaged and razed to the ground, and everyone gets reminded that it’s all the Narnians’ fault, that if it weren’t for us, the Lords wouldn’t be sending in their men... The lucky Narnians die quickly or avoid capture in the first place.” Another shiver, another sigh, old pain and bad memories, “The unlucky ones get to be toys until they’re naught more than stains on the ground where there used to be a person.” 

“That’s _despicable_ ,” Susan covered her mouth, visage wide and shocked with horror.

Rosetta’s wince was tight, attempting to masquerade as a reassuring smile, “Narnians are fair game for many a Telmarine set on various sport. Or for Sons and their lesser commanders looking for...practice to toughen up their soldiers. Just a little place, we didn’t have any humans there, but we sold what we mined to a town and they’d sell it at bigger places...” She trailed off and Susan tried to imagine it all, the pit of her stomach falling away to someplace far away. “I was fifteen and the soldiers came without warning - I...I eventually got away, they got bored with me. But by then...”

Scooting about in the tub, Susan reached out to take both of the woman’s hands in her own. There wasn’t really anything to say, it had already been said in a mix of words and body language that were as clear as witnessing atrocity and pain with one’s own eyes. In the end, Susan really couldn’t stand the fact that people got hurt like that and worse, she didn’t wish for anyone to be harmed, ever. Well, an exception could be made for Caspian. And even then, all she wanted was just enough pain for him to be punished, rather than harmed. Maybe a few kicks to the balls, or being cuffed about and beaten with a broom, _maybe_ even a dislocated shoulder at worst. Or all of the above - really, Susan wasn’t too picky about that, just...some sort of punishment that he would recover from. 

Awkwardly Susan squirmed to her knees in the tub, heeding the fact that she would make the Narnian a little damp, and gave her a quick squeeze, nodding and trying to hold back a sniffle. Muttering as the hug was returned, “Yeah.” By the end, for both of them, death would have been a welcome escape. That they survived, that Rosetta had gotten away, and Susan had been discarded, maybe that meant something, but it didn’t mean that the pain was any less.

Patting hands were gentle over her back, and Rosetta gently encouraged her back to the soaking with a smile, “Well, it’ll be nicer when he takes the throne back from that pox ridden, flea bitten pile of horse shite that he calls an uncle.”

“What makes you say that?” curious, wanting to understand more about the Narnians, specifically the one she knew, being Rosetta, as it was preferable than thinking about other things. At least the pain in her body was beginning to recede somewhat with the kindness, sleep, better food, and now the almost magical healing a good bath could impart. Yet Susan needed further distraction, words to focus upon, anything rather than sinking back into her own mind where memories and dreams waited to drag her under.

Humming, “Caspian’s a good man, a better man than most, the lad’s just at war with himself.” With a decisive nod, “But he is very honourable, once he gives his word, it’s his bond.” There was a brief pause as ladles of water were poured over Susan’s crown, rinsing her hair free of velvety foam that had managed to stay in place for much of the conversation. “And he’s sworn to change the laws so that the Narnians once more have rights and protections. And,” she leaned in conspiratorially, whispering to Susan, no matter that they were alone in the room, a glint in her green eyes, “if he had the right guidance, he may do even better than that.”

Befuddled, not taking the woman’s meaning, Susan blinked a few times, then scrunched her eyes shut as more water came, mutter-sputtering carefully as the water slipped over her face, “I don’t understand.”

“Aslan works in mysterious ways, and many of us have hoped that someone would come to help Caspian,” the tone was light, and once Susan was able to wipe her eyes clear of water, she saw that Rosetta’s body language was casual, but there was something off. Susan was too muddled to comprehend it all at once, like so many other things, it would all just have to wait.

XXX

Susan was still sore, even after the herbal poultices and salves Rosetta had employed to aid her healing. At first she had been very embarrassed, a little afraid, and leery of what those unguents would do, but they had been very effective. Many of the worst bruises were fading more quickly than she had expected, even if they did get uglier with the whole process of healing. Inside, while everything remained tender, it wasn’t the same level of pain with every attempt to take a step while standing upright. 

For some unknown reason, Susan was permitted to accompany Rosetta around her daily duties. Actually, the little dwarf had asked her if she would like to come, and for just the mere _chance_ to get out and about, to see any kind of world outside the always guarded door to the prince’s quarters, was worth doing almost anything for. So, clad in leather trews and another of Caspian’s long undertunics, Susan followed Rosetta, her eyes wide in wonder. All around them, creatures straight out of myth moved, the long corridor she had only passed through once with its warm, yellowed parchment stone that she had thought to be sandstone or limestone (but both weren’t the best building materials for any place that received rain really) but was more likely some kind of granite. Susan wasn’t a geologist, so she couldn’t say, but perhaps it was yellow quartz and granite? It didn’t matter, not really, not when a minotaur that was at least five heads taller than her clunked by. His leather kilt was slapping against rusty brown furred thighs, and a truly massive hammer strapped to his back adding to the entire image. But it was the fact that he was easily dragging a cart by a chain over a shoulder that it would take a half dozen human men to tug along like it was no trouble at all, that left Susan’s eyes wide with amazement, mouth dropped wide, like a gaping fish.

And that was just the biggest creature - _Narnian, they’re people, Su_ \- that passed by close enough for her to reach out and touch. Others, satyrs, their steps light and nimble as they appeared to make even the simple act of walking look like some sort of dance, they should be leaving Susan light headed in amazement to see _so many at once_. Needing to just stop and stare, to take it all in as Rosetta guided her to that large open area she had been brought to first what felt a lifetime ago, Susan just... _stared_ in a feeble attempt to take it all in. Soaring overhead the roof was lost to darkness, the light of torches and lanterns not reaching the ceiling, however far up it went - but there were also corridors and stairs inset into those walls, showing that the monolithic structure wasn’t just a single story in use. The open area she was standing on the outskirts of, was like a courtyard or the inside of some massive hotel’s lobby on a mind boggling scale, making it almost easier to wrap her mind around the other sights in comparison. 

Dwarves, male, female, Red, Black - they trundled rapidly about their business. Satyrs and their dancing steps, minotaurs, centaurs, and - was that a _mouse_?

“Excuse me, m’lady,” there was a soft purr behind her, and Susan about lept straight into the air, her heart pounding as she registered the size of the sleek tiger behind her, a harness slung over his back like a set of saddlebags. 

Heart racing, Susan stared at him, mouth agape for a moment, but there was vast intelligence in the tiger’s eyes, which calmed her enough to speak. “Oh - I’m so sorry! Can...can I help you with that umn...Sir Cat?” finally stepping out of his way.

“Poppet, don’t you worry about Jiroon, he’ll be just fine without us,” Rosetta said shoo’ing the tiger away.”

Wonderingly, Susan murmured to the stout woman, “He could _talk_...!” Gesturing to the others around them that were clearly animals, weaving and wending their way about doing little tasks or larger ones here and there, “Can...can all of them talk too?”

Nose scrunching up, “Well of course they can! They’re Talking Beasts, and all of them can talk!” She paused, gaze swinging over to the lone box stall not so far from the corridor she and Susan had exited, “Except for His Highness’ horse Destrier. That poor thing’s just a regular creature.” The subject changed and Susan’s hand was grabbed, tugging her along, “But it’s my turn to help with the bowyers, oh how I detest fletching arrows!” 

Neck craning this way and that, attempted to be excited. “Fletching arrows? I don’t know how to do that really.” In reality, Susan was rather excited, she was just overwhelmed by the sights and sounds around her - but after so long cooped up in the limited universe of Caspian’s quarters, anything at all was preferable, even menial labour sounded positively lovely. 

“Oh, I know it’s not all that glamourous, or fit for a lady like yourself, but even Caspian takes turns at mending things,” Rosetta confided, giving Susan a little bump of the hip with her shoulder.

Shaking her head as they exited the large pyramid castle mountain _thing_ \- or at least that’s what Susan had been assuming all this time, as her single glimpse of the place had been hanging upside down while concussed - once more halting. The sun was striking her face along with the breeze that caressed her like a mother’s touch. Eyes slamming closed, Susan tipped her head up, took a deep breath and smelled everything so _green_. Grass, trees, those were unseen behind her lids for that long, aching moment as she breathed in the first open air in positive ages. 

Another deep breath, and Susan released a laugh, eyes springing open as she couldn’t help cavorting, a cry of errant joy breaking free from her lungs. A tight circle was run, arms spread wide, head back, her eyes focused on the sky high above, and Susan thought she had never seen anything so exquisite as the towering clouds, the shadow of trees clinging and clutching at the pyramid like monstrosity, the far rolling plane that spanned the space between the place that had been her prison and the distant trees that rolled like an ocean in all other directions. The sun was _so_ bright and the grass - oh the grass was so _green_ \- and the breeze was like a kiss twisting around her as she danced, hopping and jogging about like a child let loose to play in the yard on a spring morning. 

“Oh!” still skipping and running, arms wide like she could hug the very air, the wind she generated turned the thick braid she had put her hair into a whipping tail. “Oh it’s so _beautiful_ Rosetta!” Laughing for the simple sport of it, Susan grabbed the dwarf’s hands, dancing in place, filled with an inexplicable sense of jubilation at something so simple as being outside. For several long minutes she forgot about her hurts, her fears, or the fact that there wasn’t anything all that remarkable about blue sky and green grass. Falling to her knees, Susan embraced the other woman tightly, “Oh thank you Rosetta for bringing me out here! I’ll fletch a million arrows and do yours too for thanks!”

“It’s nothing dear, but I may just hold you to doing my arrows,” the woman patted her back softly, mindful of the state of Susan’s body. “Fletching’s just so _boring_ sometimes.”

Susan nodded, straightening and as she looked up, she spied a large black horse not far from the table where Rosetta was leading her. Shading her eyes, Susan didn’t have to squint, as the form on the horse’s back was clear enough. Dark hair, riveted green brigandine over battered yellow linen tunic and undyed suede, side-laced pants - if being human wasn’t a dead give away, those features alone would have sealed it. He was too far to see clearly, but she knew he was watching her. Nausea replaced her joy and she turned from the sight of him quickly, following Rosetta as fast as she could make her body go. The weight of his gaze crawled over her back as she moved, heavy, and no doubt accompanied by a scowl.

Every now and then Susan would look up from her work only to see that Caspian was still there, too far away to get a really good look at him. Not that she wanted to, but it would have let her have some idea of what to expect later. However the last three times she checked, he wasn’t there. That didn’t mean anything in particular - he could be anywhere at all. It wasn’t like _he_ was anyone’s prisoner.

Shaking those thoughts off, Susan dipped her head back down, gaze and mind focused upon her task. Glue was painted carefully with a brush, its smell pungent and strange, unlike the glues she was accustomed to back home. In any event, it required a delicate hand so that the arrow’s weight would remain evenly distributed once assembled. Arrows had to be flexible yet rigid, while spinning through the air, they would wobble, she knew that much, and while waiting to be fired, they must remain straight. Under her fingers, wire was wrapped deftly, gently, combined with the notch to hold the head, the wrap was the final bit to keep it all together, and yet another completed arrow was added to the tremendous stack beside her. She had taken to the task with the same sort of gusto and verve a child would with a simple game - in part because it felt so wonderful to be outside, but also in silent hopes that if she did something well enough, she would be able to continue doing it. Anything to have access to the outdoors, anything to not be locked inside a private hell that spanned twenty steps in one direction, thirty another, and an uneven thirty-three in yet another as it was a misshapen universe. 

Lost to her task, the clomping of hooves came, and her back stiffened. She just knew it must be Caspian, because it clearly wasn’t the sound of a single set of hooves like would belong to a faun or a minotaur. No one around her reacted, just continued chatting and laughing as they worked at their menial, but necessary labour. Rosetta had earlier gone off for something, leaving Susan alone to a degree, saying she would return shortly. Susan didn’t know anyone else, didn’t know who to speak to to hide herself away, to act as some sort of buffer for what would come, yet there really wasn’t anything to do other than continue what she was doing. Holding her breath, Susan maintained her focus, forcefully ignoring Caspian’s presence.

“You have very nimble fingers,” the voice was low, lyrical, undeniably male - and most importantly, it didn’t belong to _Caspian_.

Susan’s head snapped up, whipped around so fast, her neck gave her an awful twinge, her eyes widening at the enormous centaur, with his human half being that of a robust black man, and the equine half a glossy ebony as he stood over her. Thick lipped like the other centaurs she had seen, with strangely broad noses and their brow melted into that nose, making their expressions quite difficult to read. Yet the large Narnian’s face certainly appeared nothing but open and serene, framed by a mane of kinky spiral curls that fell down over his shoulders, chest, and back. Not only did he possess a powerful aura, but, Susan quietly admitted that he was quite beautiful - if she were a centaur she may find him more than that, but as a human, she could still appreciate his loveliness the same as she could look at another woman and know just how enticing or bewitching that woman was to men. 

Stammering, “Umn, thank you.” 

Gracefully he leaned down enough to pick up a few of the shafts she had crafted, examining each one carefully, the examination was done in silence, thorough, each and every tiny detail taken in, before he finally appeared satisfied, the music of his voice spilling into the bright and gorgeous day, “You have done very beautiful work here.”

At this further open and honest praise, Susan blushed, “Thank you.”

“I had heard you spoke a great deal more than this and with far more force,” a small smile curled his thick lips, the words rumbling with something approaching playfulness from him, and Susan had a flashing wonder of what it would be like to be curled up with her ear pressed to his chest - well, back, since his chest would be more difficult to get to - while he spoke. Or even better, if a laugh had come from the great centaur, how much having that sound roll from his back into her ears, and all the way down to her toes - it would probably induce giggles and childish sighs, a hunger for a fluffy blanket and a snowy morning with a book and a cup of hot cocoa in hand. Like being a little girl tucked up against her father on a Christmas morning as he read a story from the new book that had been her present, before the war demanded he leave, before, back when she was tiny and it was still just she and Peter.

Because of that little flight of fancy, it took a few moments for what he said to sink in. 

Blinking up at him uncertainly, “Oh,” was all she really had to say. 

He was clearly a fighter of some sort, his shoulders were thick with muscle which spanned in well formed flesh the same shade of melted and still warm fudge. The horse part of his body would be well over her head if she stood at the shoulder of his front legs even if the space where his human waist melted into those legs was discounted, and his barrel was much like his human torso, thick and powerful, a hint of rib barely showing, proving that while well-fed, he wasn’t overfed. (Could centaurs become portly like a regular horse? And what would a waddling, pot bellied human half centaur be like topping off an equine half that was also wobbly and chunkier than Churchill? That did seem awfully overbalanced, like such a poor centaur in such a state would fall face first to the ground, large rump in the air, hind legs flailing. Or maybe folded in half, oh, now that sounded positively deadly - no, no, not good thoughts at all, so she swiftly banished from her thoughts what had been a silly image that quickly turned far too ugly for her liking.) And so, she was at a loss overall really, still trying to puzzle out what he meant. Though he seemed content to let her the time to puzzle her way through their exchange thus far, his gaze as soothingly gentle and warm as the touch of a relative on a shoulder or head, granting sweet security with the slim connection.

“Can I help you, Sir? Did you need some arrows? Because I don’t know if there’s any protocols, but I’m sure it’d be quite alright to give you some...”

“That is unnecessary, Daughter of Eve,” intoned with more formality, the hinted at smile easing away gently as he inclined his head.

“Oh, alright then,” trying to smile up at him. Unsure and grasping at straws, she searched for further conversation, as he was still standing there patiently, serenity emanating from him as he appeared to be...studying her, Susan fumbled for something, anything meaningful to say. “Umn... How - how has your day been, Mister Centaur?”

“It has been as well as can be, and you m’lady? How has your day been?” asked with head cocked in genuine curiosity and interest.

“Well, since I got a bath and Rosetta brought me outdoors, it’s been absolutely lovely, thank you for asking,” she said with a smile she couldn’t help, lids fluttering closed as she reflexively took a breath of the outdoors as she shifted around on the bench, still holding the shaft of an arrow that was waiting to have a head attached. Blinking up at him, “You know, I never knew centaurs were real. Where I come from, that’s only ancient mythology. And not even mythology from all around the world, really, just from a small peninsula sort of area - though I think there may be stories that’re from elsewhere in that area of the world, but I’m not familiar with them, and they’re not really commonly known where I come from.”

He seemed surprised, his tail swishing as his head cocked in the opposite direction, brow furrowed at the random turn of their conversation. “That is passing strange indeed.”

“Hiya Glen!” Rosetta upon returning, chirped breathlessly, a basket in hand, a jug in the other, which she set down on the table only to begin rummaging around in the basket’s contents. Simple cups of unglazed clay clunked down, followed by loaves of rich, dark looking bread the size of Susan’s hand that visible glistening jewels of dried fruit that had been baked in, a portion of cheese, and a crock of olives topped it off. Placing Susan’s portion before her, “Go ahead, eat up, and here, have a spot of tea. Glen, stop looking all big and scary, don’t you have something else to do other than intimidate the little bobbin?”

The centaur, Glen, bore an expression of mild annoyance, which was rather different and overt compared to the genteel tranquility he had exuded moments before. “My errand was to see to her, thank you.” With what sounded suspiciously like irritation, he corrected her, “And my name is not Glen, it would be appreciated if you could remember this without the necessity of frequent reminders.” A very light bow was dipped to Susan, who was unsuccessful in her attempts to cease staring at him (it was difficult, all things considered, especially since she had to hold onto her arrow otherwise she’d be horribly rude and ask if she could touch his coat), “Now, I was sent to ask if there was anything you required.”

“Umn,” thinking then smiling, she shook her head, “I’m well thank you. The fresh air’s just too lovely, and I’ve everything I need. Thank you.”

“Then if you do not mind, I shall take my leave, Daughter of Eve,” that gentle, knowing smile had returned, and was bestowed upon her along with a strange feeling of contentment as though it were a physical item that could be passed to her for a moment, and then he left.

“Oh pishaw, he’s such a show off, what a bully,” Rosetta grumped working steadily at breaking into her loaf and piling thick sliced cheese on it.

Eyeing the Red Dwarf oddly, “He seemed positively wonderful to me. There’s just something...” 

“Really? Eh, Glenstorm’s a bit uptight for me,” she shrugged. “He’s Caspian’s second in command, you know.” She gave Susan a significant look, “Just for future reference.”

“Why would he come and ask me if I needed anything?” suddenly confused for the millionth time, her hands working at bundling arrows in batches of forty as she had been shown earlier, needing to keep her hands busy before she attempted food.

“I think it may have been his peace offering, poppet,” Caspian’s name left unsaid, sharing in Susan’s desire to not broadcast how poorly Susan had been treated by Caspian.

“Oh, hmn,” lips pursing flat. Shaking her head, “I should have told him I needed a giant paddle and some unfettered access to that wanker so I could give him a piece of my mind!”

Laughter, bright and loud, continued for several seconds, until the dwarf caught her look and realized she was serious. Then Rosetta stopped, her green eyes going wide briefly before quickly laying a hand atop Susan’s. “I understand how you feel m’lady, better than many, but you must be careful where you say such things. For as terrible as things have been for you, he has been so much more than good to us, and we’re grateful to him.” Blunt fingers squeezed her hand reassuringly, “Just use caution, that’s all, okay, dearie?”

“I still vote at having a crack at him,” Susan grimaced at her meal before sighing and nodding, “but I understand.”

XXX

Susan had difficulty thinking of the room she slept in, spent so much time in - at least when she wasn’t outside - as simply Caspian’s. She hadn’t seen him in days and days, not up close, only from afar, a stoic figure in the distance whose eyes were trained on her for his own inscrutable reasons. As to why he would sit and (she supposed) scowl in her direction for a good solid hour - sometimes even more - Susan wouldn’t attempt to divine, cobble, or even fabricate a reason for it. Caspian was a madman who did whatever he did for his own reason, his own gain. Just because the Narnians believed in him, she was certain that he would soon enough abandon them, or use them up, throwing them at the Telmarine forces. She would, grudgingly, admit that maybe she was wrong though, since every single Narnian she spoke with had at least one anecdote of the prince’s assistance, a joke, a hand here, a shoulder put to menial task, a listening ear with a look of intense concentration... They truly believed he cared for them, and - that Susan was entertaining the vaguest notion of possibility was disconcerting - _maybe_ he really did. 

Because of that - possibly remote, probably highly implausible, just not fully impossible - the fact that the many missives and lists that remained in the room indicated that Caspian likely returned whenever she was out. Otherwise, it meant that he wasn’t attending to whatever his self-assigned duties were... And for some reason, maybe, just maybe, that was something she believed he wouldn’t do - abandon his duties, that is. 

_However_ that didn’t mean Susan wasn’t above looking at those pages herself. The first time, they had been in no semblance of remote order whatsoever, and the same was true for the second, third, fourth, and fifth times. Gradually over the days, Susan would try to cobble some sense out of them, first just trying to put them in some kind of chronology, then to understand what was described on the pages. As to the why she found herself doing it, well, it wasn’t like she was outside and working, now was it? Indoors, Susan had nothing to do, nothing to read, nothing to write, no real interaction...she was just in the room and that was that. So were the papers however, so was an inkwell and quill that she could probably fumble about with when she finally had something to say perhaps...

Combing her fingers through her hair steadily, starting at the ends, head cocked, she carefully began where she had left off the day before, allowing her mind to absorb the information. Susan didn’t know where this place was, this Narnia, that she had found herself in. It wasn’t on any map she knew growing up, was no nation, kingdom, people, nor story to be heard of or seen or known in history classes. Yet she was here, and this was what she could do, drift and allow some sense of action fill her waking hours with satisfaction after a sort. 

Well, so long as she avoided Caspian at least, 

At some point during her repeated, endless sleeps with their dreams that soothed during rest and tortured when awake, Susan had lost track of actual time. Yet, the missives and lists gave her a time frame, a real one. More than a month had passed since arriving in this impossible place. (Had she perhaps turned sideways and walked betwixt the sun and shore, tumbling into a faerie hill straight out of silly mythos? After all, London was ancient, so maybe in its mad sprawl it held a few secrets that were more common on moors and mountains. Or maybe the _Blitzkrieg_ had stirred up something. No, that was just fanciful thought, the imagination of pagans and children... Yet it was one of her only remotely plausible explanations.) Dismissing those musings as impractical (just as it was impractical to wonder how to return home, seeing as she was imprisoned by Caspian but even more so, captive to war, and how that would prevent her from searching) Susan frowned at the report in her hand.

Caspian’s script was neat, sharp, slanted, and crisp, like blackened slashes. Often it would start off as precise block letters, but then it would become apparent his writing picked up speed, and by the end of a paragraph, it would become cursive. Equally neat and legible, but still carrying an almost Arabic slant and flow to it. At least if Arabic was read left to right and used a Latin alphabet. (Strangely, there were extra letters in Caspian’s script, more than just the typical accent carrying letters such as was seen in the difference between German, French, and English. What she had been able to decipher was that there was thirty-five letters rather than what she was accustomed to, and while she could muddle through Greek, these weren’t of that origin. Which again led her back to Arabic - which was most certainly not her forte. If only Edmund were here, her younger brother was ever so intrigued by Arabian Nights and the Ottoman Empires. To say nothing of the Mongols or the Crusades, there were days she half expected him to begin blabbing in some other language while whinging over a lack of Turkish Delight... At least they had always shared a love of history, even if it wasn’t the same types, and would often sketch out what histories described of vast battles and tactics.) Thoughts on studying his writing led away from the work Susan intended on doing, instead it left her wondering just where the blighted prince was - mainly so she could avoid it like it carried a pox.

What did it matter if Jiroon, Glenstorm, Rosetta, Hitastik and Jumbletot all thought that the Telmarine heir had hung the sun and moon, some sort of messianic saviour to them all? It wasn’t to help _him_ that she was sitting on the hard chair, squinting and once more attempting to come up with whatever sounds accompanied those extra letters, it was to help the Narnians she knew, and the ones who eased her violent passage into this place. It was for their gain she puzzled over a seven letter word when it should be five letters, having to guess sometimes if the word she was reading was really a word she knew. (It was all rather headache inducing, but it was better than laying down and succumbing to nothing but sleep.)

Finally, everything made more sense, and Susan was ready to act. Clumsily she trimmed a quill, and made use of a page that had been ‘x’ over so many times by Caspian that it was all but useless. On the back of the page, Susan sketched out skirmishes that were discussed in the reports, and a few larger fights.

Another frown found her face eventually as she compared just how often a set of tactics was repeated. “That’s...not good,” muttering to herself.

Losing herself to the task, fresher paper was found after a bit of rummaging, which she then compared to small maps from the various battlefronts. On them she did her best to neatly convey tactics generals of her world had used to success depending upon terrain. Hours slid by, and Susan found herself giving Rosetta a brief hug but sending her away when the Red Dwarf asked her if she would like an evening stroll. Eventually she fell asleep, cheek pressed to the table, piles of papers holding suggestions based upon historical facts she knew, alongside questions that she thought may lead to better ideas, because really, what did Susan know about actual warfare? Then again, Caspian could use all the extra ideas he could get.

Awakening to the sound of a curse, Susan sat bolt upright, wildeyed and terrified. Caspian’s back was to her, and he was huffing and puffing, carrying a massive chest with the assistance of Hitastick on one end. (Dwarves, Susan had noticed, were impressively strong, their size notwithstanding.) After a few moments, Caspian waved the dwarf off.

“I am fine, I can move it from here,” foot kicking the side of the oversized trunk - it looked like a steamer trunk almost, or like it came out of some artist’s rendition of an overgrown treasure chest - with an amused grunt. “It just needs a bit of wrangling and scooting, ‘naught more.” A long hand raked through dark hair, “Thank you for the assistance, why not go rest for a bit? Take a day off.”

Susan remained frozen, fearing what was to come, what would happen, oh how it would happen, there was no escaping it. For he had but to shift, to turn, to glance her way, and he would see her, see her with his things, see her with the papers, _witness_ her meddling and oh sweet, merciful Lord, deliver her from evil, from Hell, from the nightmare - If she hadn’t been there, if he had only looked over what she had done _when she wasn’t **there**_ then he would _see_ she meant no harm. But here? Here, right now? She wasn’t much of a Christian, she had stopped believing when the bombs first began to strike London, when her family home in Finchley shook and shuddered as she huddled protectively over her siblings, guarding them with her body in the little shed shelter. If she thought prayers would do anything she would vow to whatever necessary to make that change, yet still, disbelieving, she released feverish, fervent, ardent silent whispers with a zeal that he wouldn’t notice her inching from the table.

Fear was not conducive to steady limbs, Susan hadn’t learned the steely resolve of those too well acquainted fear and cruel situations. Legs tangling with the chair, Susan fell earning a few new bruises, a choked cry stillborn in her throat, unable to work its way free. Instantly, Susan scrambled, scuttling clumsily, working herself up to the wall, hunching into a ball, arms over herself.

“What?” Caspian’s voice snapped through the air like a cracking whip, startled, and she saw him look at her in surprise.

Attempting to make herself even smaller, words clawed from her throat, sobbing free, “I was helping, don’t t-touch me! Please...please don’t! I wasn’t doing anything wrong - I swear!”

The silence stretched for interminable eternity, minutes or seconds, that were endless.

Another harsh snap, but less violent, less startled, something closer to the times **Before** , “You were supposed to be outside.”

Wincing, Susan dared to peek at him, just enough to see him standing there, staring at her, and she hazarded to voice a reason, “No one came to get me.”

After that, she curled up tighter again, and Susan attempted to relax at the same time, expecting heavy blows and kicks as he strode over to her quickly. But none came. No further movement, no speech, nothing. Instead, gentle susurrations of paper on paper, followed by a grunt every now and again. It was too much to hope that he was focused on what she had written, that maybe, just maybe he was examining and thinking before he would punish her. If only she had managed to get farther away, if only she could make it to the door, maybe she could win free, buy time, flee to the open areas where Narnians ran thick. Caspian wouldn’t attack her out there, would he?

Finally, his tone curious, neutral, not hostile, “Hrmph - interesting. Who are Attila, Temujin, and Ceasar?”

Shivering, “Great generals of their times.”

“And just how do you know of them? Of these generals and their tactics?” 

Swallowing, Susan looked through her arms, lowering them warily, and saw that his expression was impassive, a few of the sketches of movements over her sloppily recreated maps held in one hand, his other resting on the table, holding much of his weight as he was turned towards her partially. “Whatever I’ve found in books, histories... In the libraries back home, there’s dozens of books on each and the lands they conquered, claimed for empires, building new ones on the bones of old, crushing kingdoms greater than theirs, and making it all over again.” Gaining strength by his lack of action, and the fact that she had managed to get that much out, Susan offered, even as she sat up and scooted further from him, “I wanted to help the Narnians who’ve been nice to me.” That got her a raised brow and a gesture with the papers in his hand for her to continue, “From what I read, it looks like you’ve been using the same set of tricks repeatedly. It’s worked dozens of times so far, but eventually someone will notice that nothing new is being done. And when that happens...” Susan trailed off, shook her head, “I just thought maybe a few new ideas may jog something loose for you. The generals were all fast on their feet, their commanders steady and almost as fast, and knew the limits of their soldiers and the terrain... Generals study tactics, military geniuses study logistics. You know your people, Narnians and Telmarines. You know what they can do, and you know the land. I just know some old tricks and maybe those things could spur you onwards. That -” she ran out of words, strength, and stuttered, amazed at herself for having managed as much as she had, “th-that’s all, honest.”

His coal dark eyes flicked down to what she had drawn, his mouth a thin grimace as he nodded silently. Caspian’s lips were oddly distorted by him licking his teeth behind the closed flesh, and he sniffed faintly before setting her work down. She held herself tense, watchful for what he would do next, but he went to the chest and began shoving and dragging it closer to the pallet. As his face was masked by the position of his body working the chest across the uneven floor, Susan was left to study the rest of him. Hair flopping oddly, it was damp in spots, the inner layers clinging to the base of his neck in a bit of curl, and he looked surprisingly clean. (A rarity, all too often Susan recalled smudges of grime on hands, face, and neck, dirtier than a chimney sweep was the Telmarine prince.) Finally after a few grunts and the scrape of iron banded wood over stone floor, the trunk was parked firmly to the side of the pallet. After that, he squatted and set to work on the lock on it, cursing when the key he had didn’t work. From the side of a fitted boot, the soft oxblood, tooled leather yielded a flattened roll from which the Telmarine pulled several slim tools. Susan thought it odd, what kind of prince would know how to pick locks? After a minimum of fuss, there came a firm ‘click’ and the padlock snapped open. Chinking came as Caspian removed it, tossing it towards the door for later retrieval.

All the while, Susan didn’t utter a word. Any she had possessed had already found their way out, and any that remained unsaid would only provoke him. His continuing silence and lack of hostile action towards her stirred up Susan’s ire, the little ember that hadn’t been truly extinguished was beginning to puff and burn, sparkling inside. It scalded and ordered her to unleash its heat on him, to tell him he was a monster. That he was disgusting, in no uncertain terms, and that if he even managed to succeed, his soul was the most vile and blackest thing in all of creation, no better than the leaders he fought against. Instead, Susan kept quiet, yes, out of fear, but also knowledge. Any of the great, memorable leaders, from absolute antiquity, to even present life, there was no such thing as good leader who was also a _good person_. These things didn’t go hand in hand. Instead, the drive to lead well frequently stemmed from narcissism, cunning, and in many cases, behind closed doors, utterly cruel, uncaring bastards. And even if those leaders weren’t the scum of the earth in their private spaces, they weren’t very nice _either_ , always containing some form of deep selfishness that moved them this way and that. Except - _possibly_ \- Ghandi. Even that may not be true, the Indian’s whole peaceful and loving demeanor could truly be a guise compared to what went on in his mind or home, and since he had been veritably martyred... _Never mind, it’s not here nor there, he’s not worth it._

The lid was flung open, folding branches of shelves sprang from the upward bowed roof of the chest by long tanned to a deep copper hands, followed by a last sniff and kick of boot to the chest was given. Dark eyes flicked over her briefly as he went to right his chair, waving a from her to the chest, “Find something to wear.”

“I’m already clothed, thank you kindly,” that ember blasted forth in a snap that Susan found queerly frigid. Could white anger be frozen? It certainly seemed that way at the moment.

“Yes, in some of my very few changes of spare clothes,” he nodded, not reacting to her ire, unconcerned. Pointing at the chest once again even as he leaned his back against the edge of the table, his elbows resting on the top, “Pick something...blue.”

Brow furrowing at him, Susan cautiously rose, the hard knot of earlier terror sinking deeper beneath the surface so it wouldn’t leave her incapable of action. “Why?

“Because I told you to,” was his lazy reply as she knelt by the chest.

Inside there was a rainbow of greens, blues, purples, yellows, and even some glaring oranges tangled with red. The foamy pinks were a bit nauseating though. It was chaos and haphazard, like several stores and lady’s closets had been raided, rifled through, and the contents shoved into the chest, while other things were folded with military precision like the parachutes Mother described packing during her work at one of the factories. They were strange, Susan hadn’t seen their like before, and as she sunk her hand into the mass, the fabrics whispered against her fingers. Almost silk, almost twill, so thick that it was like five or six sheets of paper stacked together, Susan frowned at one happy lavender swath as she rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. _Samite_ , the correct word coming to mind. She rather liked the lavender’s strange shimmer, but it wasn’t _blue_. 

Not looking at him, her gaze fixed and narrowed on the mounds of blues that dominated, wanting to defy him, “And you think I’m just going to do something because you told me to.” Sparing him a more direct look, “That’s absolute bollocks. I’m clothed, I’m comfortable in what I’m wearing already, and _if_ I was going to wear any of this mess, it would be _me_ choosing whatever I feel like from it.”

Lips lifting in a self-assured smirk, his legs stretched out and were crossed at the ankles, “You shall do as I say.” Susan was about to counter him, but the next words out of his mouth slid free and deep like a blade into her gut, “Or I will cease allowing you time outdoors.”

Stomach muscles clenched tight as though her belly would rebel at the sadistic threat delivered with the same sort of placid demeanor as any offhand comment. Gritting her teeth, Susan turned back to the chest’s contents. Nothing looked familiar to her beyond the colours. Bits and pieces were sheer, dozens of long night dresses of linen, lighter silks, and it was these that were true rainbows. They should be beautiful, but nightdresses weren’t _clothing_. Cropped vests that would show off breasts and belly or back, scandalous and utterly without use, these were shoved this way and that, with a mix of care and desperation. Skirts, swaths of things that may have been dresses - Susan didn’t know what any of it was. Except there were a handful of torture device things that looked like they might be some kind of girdle. _Corset, maybe?_ She only had vague notions of what those were, female fashion of yesteryear hadn’t ever been all that intriguing to her, Susan had liked the sciences, politics, and trade of history along with military machinations...not...what people wore.

Growling as she tossed down yet another impossible piece of incomprehensible fabric into the chest, “No. I’m not going to dress up as some fallen woman or dancing girl of lowered morals for you to _ogle_!” Squeezing the lip of the chest in a red knuckle grip, and the words that were crawling free should have been wailed, whimpered, or cried, instead they came out in a pained, exhausted sigh, “Haven’t you taken _enough_ from me already?”

“Then I shall take more, for you have not yet learned your lesson obviously,” his voice hardening. Impossibly his sword was whipped from its sheath, which was not just visually difficult to believe, but _had_ to violate some laws of physics or logic or _something_ for it to come out so fast, so easily, from such an awkward position. And that sword was leveled at her, unwavering, the length of steel steady no matter how unwieldy the bloody thing looked to her eyes, “Strip.”

Jaw clenched, she knew he what he could do, and it was worse than just taking her outdoor privileges away. Oh, she knew intimately how much worse he could do and Susan’s hands shook as she pushed herself to stand, back to him, kicking off the shoes Rosetta had found somewhere for her. Eyes closed, Susan shoved and yanked at the trousers she wore.

Cold steel touched her hand, the flat of the blade resting there in warning, “Slower. And turn towards me - open your eyes.”

That was just too much, but she could feel how sharp his sword was, and she had no doubt he'd do something highly unpleasant to her if she didn't do as he said. It took a sheer effort of will but Susan opened her eyes, not looking at him, but at some point over his shoulder, her hands sliding the worn suede of her borrowed pants down her legs. Folding the material up, Susan set it aside, hoping that the shirt she wore was really long enough to cover her even if just for a little while longer. She did everything she could just shut it out, this was nothing but disrobing to change in her own private space, alone. Caspian lifted the hem up with the tip of his weapon, ruining any threadbare story she had told herself, and Susan wanted nothing more than to take it from him and hit him a few times with it. His head was cocked, and he looked flushed, but seemed content to just sit there for now, and a part of her realized he was truly _enjoying_ this. Praying he wouldn't want anything else, Susan started to take the tunic off, going very slow, not to entice him, but because she didn't wish to be nude before him. Licking his lips, Caspian just stared at her, as she was exposed before his eyes. Too bad he wouldn't find the bruises all over her unattractive, she'd found out enough about Telmarine customs to know that much.

Frankly it all disgusted her.

"Now, pick something blue," his voice was low and roughened about the edges, husky, "or you can just stay like you are now."

It was always a bit chilly so deep in the How (and what kind of name for a castle or crypt or temple - whatever the Narnian bolthole was originally), the granite buffering from all outside temperatures, particularly in these quarters which were almost in the very center she had been told. Susan wasn’t entirely sure of the why of it, but it was likely to do with ventilation, the stone itself, and the fact that the sun never touched the inside, not even via windows at intervals, since there weren’t any windows, just scout ledges. Nonetheless, the mere thought of having to stay naked was unappealing from just the perspective of the chill. Worse was the fact that she didn’t want to be bare in front of him, not for any period of time, long or short, it mattered not, especially not with him looking at her like _that_. (Maybe if he had looked at her in such a manner before hurting her, and gone that route from the start rather than beating and...and what he did, she may not loathe him so. But to suffer it _now_ after all that? No.) Chewing her mostly healed lip, Susan bent over and rummaged once more for something. Taking out all of the many (very many) blue things, she picked the one that would cover the most. Scowling at it, Susan moved it this way and that, seeking some idea of what went where from the incomprehensible pile. 

“Not that one,” sword flashing and yanking it with amazing delicateness from her grasp, the edges never coming into contact with the stretched bits, preventing any cutting.

“Then fine! You bloody well pick, I’m not playing your asinine game!” she fired back at him, throwing her hands up in the air then crossing her arms tightly about herself, Susan turned her back on him yet again, trying to cover herself, ward off both his gaze and the chill already seeping into her.

The chuckle was surprisingly robust and warm, startling in its husky richness and she felt him standing behind her, heat radiating from him like a basement furnace. God he moved _so fast_ it was inhuman. That hand that had so hurt her landed on her waist with a terrifying easy gentleness, firm nonetheless, firm enough to drag her close to him as he turned her around to face him once more. “ _That_ one is for winter, you will melt into a puddle of misery if you wear it, and become particularly irritating to deal with.”

Disbelieving, Susan snorted at him, sparing the scrap of cloth a flick of a glance, “Winter? _Right_. That thing covers so little not even the easiest of the easy girls would wear it, they’d feel too exposed.”

“Hrmph, you do not know how to wear it then,” lips pursing in that hint of a smile as Caspian’s long hand pressed her lower back, forcing her to stand flush with him. Leaning down, “Stop covering your breasts.”

Breathing slowly in and out, counting to ten, Susan felt herself go red, the flush burning itself even in her forearms, shoulders, and right on down to her toes, as she uncrossed her arms. The metal of his studded brigandine was absolutely freezing against her skin, in spite of the heat that poured off of him. “Whatever. You should pick, you’ll do so anyway, and if it will get this entire farce over with faster, I’ll bear it.”

Caspian’s hand remained holding her pressed close as he twisted to the side enough to dip a hand into the trunk, pulling out several items - including one of those wispy nighties that Susan would expect from someone’s wedding night it was so airy. “You put the chemise on first, then the corset, the petticoat, the overskirt, and the bodice - did your mother never teach you how to dress?”

“No, we’re civilized enough to just make better, more practical garments than _that_ ,” jabbing at the fabric that faded from pale to vibrant blues (and all of it was blue, save for a slash of soft lavender, which made little sense considering his demand she wear just blue) in his hand.

Head cocking to the side minutely, brows tipping up in the center, the very picture of piqued interest, his voice was uncharacteristically soft despite the continued ragged timbre, “Intriguing, perhaps I shall have you tell me about it later.”

Grip loosening suddenly, Caspian took a step back from her, still crowding her personal space, and as his hand was removed from her back, it was a strange squeezing caress. Taking the flimsy lavender nightgown thing from him, Susan yanked it on impatiently - anything to stop feeling so strange that close to him. She should be sickened, terrified, angry (alright, she was irritated, angry, yes, but _more_ ) at him and his towering there with barely a foot separating them. Instead there was an urge to huddle in suddenly, because he was so damnably _warm_ and she felt goosepimples all over, and she hated him, oh by a thousand curse words she wasn’t supposed to know but knew plenty of them, oh by those words how she hated him. For the moment though, Susan hated him for the wrong reasons, rather than her very justified other reasons that she clung to, hoping to bring something else forward, other than anger that he was warm, she was cold, and that his freshly washed smell was strangely _pleasant_. Shouldn’t his smell make her want to piss herself in terror, vomit, and rage at him all at once? It most certainly _shouldn’t_ make her have sickening, flittering, thoughts of scooting a step or two forward to at least be in the circle of his warmth while she dressed. Next came the petticoat, even though he snorted, trying to hold out the corset, but her hand darted past his for the sand washed denim blue of the petticoat. That too was yanked on impatiently...but the corset finally was shoved into her grip, a stern looking brow raised at her.

Holding it between her thumb and forefingers, far from her, as she made a disgusted face at the cream coloured monstrosity. Samite and even thicker than some of the other pieces she had come across, yes, that was what it was, sandwiched bones between layers... It was padded in the spaces between intervals of bone, and it was either reversible (plausible, as one side was a creamy bleached linen shade, the other was minty green), or different from the nightmare tales of Victorian corsets. There would be no crushing of ribcage, no gouging of bone into unprotected flesh, as the twill thick silk seemed to prevent that.

Sighing, Susan shrugged with insincere disappointment, “I don’t know how to work this thing, so I guess I don’t have to wear it.”

Before she could drop it back into the trunk, Caspian took it from her, his tone allowing for no argument, “Then allow me to enlighten you.”

It may have been phrased as a request, an offer, but it was an order, no matter how velvet the delivery.

A legitimate sigh this time, Susan rolled her eyes, locking her knees so she would neither flee nor step forward, but she spread her arms out, “Somehow I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“Not like that,” his head jerked towards the larger table on the other end of the room, it was almost a trestle table, but smaller than a real one, “grab hold of the table, it should be sturdy enough.”

“What?” alarmed, Susan felt her chin jutting out.

With a shake of his head, his lips quirked further, almost into...a grin. A grin that made him appear boyishly mischievous...almost... _almost_ attractive (and that was an ugly thought - why was it there in her head? It didn’t belong there, and even as she shook her own head to try and dislodge it, there was a funny dancing glint in his evil, coal dark eyes that briefly - _briefly_ \- put her in mind of Lucy). “Just trust me.”

Muscles in her jaw tensing, Susan forced her feet to carry her to the table, complying as she whispered, “I’ll never make that mistake, I wasn’t born yesterday.”

If he heard her - which he should have as he was right behind her every step of the way, and she knew that by the warmth at her back, as his boots didn’t even whisper across the stone floor - Caspian disregarded the statement. With a flick the corset was flung around her front, his other arm wrapping around to catch the end and pull it close, after she grabbed hold of the end of the table, pressing the device to her chest. It took some minutes as laces were rethreaded, then increasing firmness as they traveled up her back. And then he hauled back on them, jerking them tight, causing Susan to stumble back into his chest. She hadn’t been expecting the sudden force of it, hell, she hadn’t expected more than the continued tugs.

His face was buried in her hair briefly before she recoiled, jerking away from him, “You have to hold tighter to the table, bend over more as well.”

For Caspian to have done that, meant he would have had to duck his head on purpose, for without the tiniest lift from shoes, the top of her head didn’t reach his shoulder.

Muttering, doing as she was told, “Now you tell me.”

Caspian’s hands moved slowly and firmly over her back, getting her cinched in, and as he neared the top of the laces, Caspian curled over her back, and she could feel his breath on her neck, making her shiver, “Is it tight enough?”

“How should I know?” it came out in an uncomfortable whisper - no, no she wasn’t comfortable at all, he always unsettled her, and with him up against her like _this_ , Susan just wanted to flee, run, run, take flight like a startled hind, bounding away to freedom, away from the hunter’s blind where a man would sit, patiently searching for prey. 

It got worse as he moved in even closer, curling over her back with his long frame, curling and stretching over her, so that she could feel his groin pushing into her bottom. He was clearly enjoying it far more than any respectable person (which no one could describe him as) should. The thought left her seething and aghast, Caspian had shown what a threat his body was to her well beyond the physical force of blows. Squeezing the table harder, Susan bit her tongue, seeking to keep herself grounded as he remained subtly, peculiarly unthreatening - if pressing so close to her could be considered unthreatening when done by anyone other than him, that is. Another shiver, his breath coasting in slow, measured breaths, his hands still on the corset’s laces, unmoving, as his presence, his touch, his breath, his smell, and the sun hot sultriness of him seeped and sunk deeper into her. Caspian’s actions were nothing like last time - _No! Don’t think, don’t think, don’t remember! Not even to compare it!_ Correcting herself with a rabbit’s frantic speed, Caspian’s actions didn’t feel dangerous or harmful. _That’s better, yes._ Violence and force were absent, instead, they were slow, measured...so if he forced her to do something, even though she didn’t want it, it wouldn’t be so... It wouldn’t be as astoundingly hideous as what the thing she wasn’t going to let herself think about while he was right there had been.

Lips, lips as soft as rose petals, pressed at her nape, face nuzzling in the hair there, accompanied by deep inhales, “If you can breathe comfortably while still supported, that should be fine, I suppose. Your body would not do well with further if you are so unaccustomed to dressing as a woman should. To cinch you in more would leave you dizzy and fainting.” Another deep inhale, the words rolling and rumbling thickly through and through, not just at the edges, “I do not wish for you to be cinched in like most women are, your waist is already trim enough... But-” his hands quickly tied off the laces finally, and slid around her front, slipping into the chemise and under the corset, adjusting her breasts to her disgust, “the effect on your chest will be dazzling, I am sure.” Calloused fingers and palms squeezed and fondled at her slowly, far more than just an adjustment would require, his thumbs rolling up and down the tops of her bosom, his fingers stroking underneath and the sides, leaving Susan quivering, feeling filthy for the fact that she wasn’t fighting, crying, or afraid. His touch should be abhorrent! It shouldn’t feel... _nice_. With a tweak to one of her now erect nipples, “I hope you like the gifts; I had to go to an inordinate amount of trouble to procure them for you.”

Eyes opening to see his dark hands against pale material and working against her even paler, freckle covered skin, Susan swallowed the acidic taste in her mouth, hoping that it would make it go away. “And I’m supposed to be grateful, I take it?” Her nails bit into the wood, forcing the words from herself, “Well I’m not. You’ll get no thanks from me.”

“You should be, yes,” the second bit of her statement ignored, a hand leaving off her chest to run the coarse textured fingers over her neck, moving her hair to the opposite shoulder, and the underdress didn’t really cover the skin there much, so she felt every touch. An open mouthed kiss, his hands had moved to her hips, holding her tight to him. “I find myself infected by craving,” to illustrate the point, his hands squeezed her hips firmly, and she felt the hard line of him grinding against her once. Another deep inhale, this time, loud and behind her ear, Caspian’s voice dropped down to a bare breath poured into her ear, lips tickling against the shell, “That is a dangerous thing for a man to feel. Women make men want to do things for them.” He didn’t sound distressed, angry, unsettled, or anything, just - just _hungry_ , there wasn’t any other word for it that Susan knew of. “To give them things. And in return, women take these gifts, ask for more, demand more, and the man becomes weak. I _avoided_ you for days - it feels like forever.” The flat of his teeth pushed into her skin, his mouth on her neck, just below her ear, the words distorted and muttered around the flesh, “You make me tread a perilous path, woman. So yes, you should be very grateful.” Susan was still as a statue, with no idea what he was on about, her pulse skipping and skittering in her veins - he sounded like a _madman_. “I am diseased. I am weak. I bring you gifts when I should bring you nothing. I help you - when, if you cannot help yourself, you are deserving of absolutely nothing. Yet I do it, unable to stop myself.” Caspian rubbed his face in her neck, fingers tugging at the bottom of the corset, “Assistance, respite, protection and guidance of the weak - it is _unacceptable_ except for one’s own offspring, and only when they are too little to know of anything, but they must be toughened quickly, even so. Yet, I do this, I am unable to stop myself. And this is a sickness.”

Susan hadn’t intended on her words coming out gentle, hadn’t intended on allowing a hand to relinquish its hold on the table to touch his fingers where they dug into her hip. “What you call a disease, most would call humanity.” Her lack of intention didn’t stop her voice being so soft, or the note of empathy, reassurance, or the way her fingers ran over the backs of his. Against any intention, it happened anyway, no matter that Susan willed herself to be steel, uncaring...but she was seeing something agonizing in a wounded animal that lay there panting, its eyes rolling with unabating misery... And in spite of knowing the danger a wounded animal posed, Susan touched him. “Without it, a man isn’t a man, a woman isn’t a woman, without humanity, we’re not even animals who know no better, without humanity and gentleness, we’re only evil.”

A scoff, without heat - Susan discounted the heat of his body on purpose, “Humanity is for peasants. _Empathy_ is for the weak who are ruled, living their lives in fields or perhaps doing simple crafts. It robs the mind of strength as surely as it does the spirit and body. In a lord, in a king - it serves no purpose, but to be taken advantage of. Weakness is death for the powerful, and then it spreads to the _peasants_ , until only a strong lord or king remains to put all back to rights.” 

It was no tirade, it wasn’t even a recitation, but delivered explanation of known fact, with just enough flourish to show it wasn’t by rote. Then came sucking as Caspian’s mouth clamped over the partially healed bite wound on her shoulder, and Susan flinched, pulling away and tilting her neck better for him in the same breath. His tongue slithered over the mark, his hips rubbing against her with purposeful strokes, as slow and methodical as his steady inhales and exhales through his nose.

“Yet you still live, so you must not have as much humanity as you think you possess seeing as they’ve not killed you yet,” said as it seemed to be what he needed to hear, and maybe it would distract him, maybe it would make him stop, and she could put suitable distance between them, where her stomach could stop doing the flipping, flopping, queasy swimming that vacillated between gut-wrenching fear and a disquieting warmth coiling lower and lower.

Caspian turned them around, so he could sit on the bench, her standing, back to him still, his hands running over her with a proprietal bent, grasping and tugging, but not pulling her down to sit. With careless detachment, Caspian could be discussing the finer points of caring for tack, "Let me tell you of my mother. She is why I bear this taint already that you can so easily exploit." His arms came around her, pulling Susan into his lap just as she had been half-fearing, half-expecting, and she didn’t know what to do with that. His hands shifted from her bottom, waist, and back to rubbing over her chest and abdomen, "My father was bound by law and tradition to kill my mother for having lain with another man. It was not important that the man had cornered her, that she had dared to fight him and that he bore the marks that she had made him pay for his pleasure dearly. With his bare hands, my father delivered the sentence. In front of all the male children of the Lords. I was seven," cheek moving back and forth over her shoulder where the shift didn't cover it, something wet there that wasn't from his mouth, and Susan felt a different lurching sickness in her belly, like when she had seen his back for the first time. "And so I watched because it was expected of me, while my father beat her to death before us all. Bloody fists landing again and again on her." More wetness, and his breath was hitching, though Susan could tell he was trying to hide this from her, and Caspian’s voice continued on blithely as he revealed what a supposedly ‘real’ man should do, "But because it was law, and custom, the son of such a tainted woman had to show that he rejected her. That he was strong enough and not weak, not tainted or diseased." Her hands curled over his, grabbing and stilling his hands, her heart trembling as her mind shied from the visions he painted while also looking on in endless horror, clutching at his fingers, her stomach sinking as she realized what he was going to say, "So the death blows were to be delivered by me."

"What," choking and she wiggled in his arms until she could turn, standing and holding his face pressed into her stomach, her own humanity, empathy, demanding this of her no matter the danger before her, "what happened?"

"I crushed her throat, because before the execution she told me that I must, to stay safe, that I must do this thing for her," Caspian clung to her, and Susan wondered why he was even telling her these unbearably terrible things. It was as though he were unable to help himself. If Rosetta was to believed - and there was no reason not to - most Telmarine aristos would be puffed up with pride with their recounting of such horrors. Or, if they had shreds of decency, it was possible they would recount them with easy factual delivery, but no puffing up and preening, yet expecting themselves to be praised for their vicious and ugly deeds.

Stroking his shoulder and neck, Susan mumbled nothing in particular, trying to soothe his anguish however possible, because while he delivered it without delight and overblown ego, it was _spoken_ of without shame or pain, contrary to his hidden face, clinging, and the obvious tears (which were even more hidden than his face, which was buried in her abdomen). His people were disgusting, and he was struggling just as Rosetta had said, with what he had been taught by his people and his own nature. Pity and pain warred within herself for him against her wishes, the battle having been won in favour of empathy for the moment. Perhaps, _perhaps_ \- a slim chance, but one nonetheless that Susan felt utterly compelled to grant him for the moment - Caspian had done the best he could with her, and each thing he did for her put heavy demands on his morals that were learned over a nightmare of a lifetime. It didn’t change the egregious filthy wrongs he had forced upon her, but it did put it in a different light. Dropping a kiss to the crown of his head as though he were a small child she were comforting, Susan rocked side to side.

"My father, years later, when I was fifteen, he summoned me to his study," rolling his face to the side, he stared off into the distance, seeing that memory, his face dry but she could feel the dampness that had come from those tears being wiped away with the rubbing and tilting of his face. "He told me of this dreadful disease called 'love'. It is the worst curse a man can ever have, it destroys you, consumes you from the inside out, nibbling here and there, then sucking the very marrow from your bones. That it makes men weak because they live for the other person. He said 'The King must not have weakness if he is to keep control of the land, the people, and the Lords. I have yet to take another woman as mine. And I find myself pining for her. I have that most horrid and deadly of diseases my son - I have love. And because I love you, and because I loved your mother - you must kill me. Do it, prove to the Lords and Council that you do not bear either of your parents’ evils. Do it, so that you may live my son.'" Caspian laughed bitterly, "So I killed him. Because I loved him. And because he loved me, I let him protect me, no matter that it had been many years since I was small enough to be allowed such shelter."

Holding him tight - what else could she do under such an onslaught? - Susan mourned for the little boy, and for the youth, and for the man before her. There was potential humanity there, she'd sensed it gradually and the rest of the time, she could deny its existence, but not right now. _Now_ the puzzle pieces were falling into place. How warped and twisted that humanity and decency may be, and what macabre creature may eventually pry its way from the husk of his upbringing, Susan couldn’t say, didn’t dare to think on one way or another, it was out of her hands, she didn’t know him, didn’t know them, didn’t know what would come tomorrow, or at the end of the war. There was a shred, a seed, and it may die, or it may grow, but remain stunted - it was in the hands of others and circumstance. Her own hand touched the lower part of his neck, where the edges of the massive amount of scar tissue lay matted, causing Susan to suddenly, twistedly for some unknown reason, wish nothing more than to take his hurts from him, which was a thought that should sicken her to her deepest core. Even though now as a man he was horrid so much of the time, he still tried, and he deserved to have less pain. No one should go through what he went through. Maybe if he hadn’t lived like that for so long, maybe if there had been just that fraction more security and giving in his life, he could be the Caspian that tormented her sleeping mind without relent.

Groaning into her, Susan could feel the effort he made to pull away finally, his face turned from her, what she could see of his expression implacable, immovable, untouched by anything he had said or done, "Now put on the dress of your choice, just make it blue."

Slipping from the circle of his arms, Susan ran to the trunk, and struggled to get the skirt of the dress on followed swiftly by the bodice, staring at him as he turned his back, where he stayed bent over the table, a hard grip on the wood. The ties were crooked but it'd have to do, and Susan backed further from him, as far from him and the bed as she could get, because now she didn't know what he would do. She'd seen his weakness, and he may view that as dangerous to him, but he may not. He may see it as a warning, a threat, an admonishment, or a display of prowess as to how far he had gone and could go again - the Narnians who told her of the Telmarines didn’t _live_ amongst the aristocracy, and only had secondhand knowledge, or witness of things outside of day to day operations in the upper tiers of the culture. Caspian gradually turned around on the bench, having collected himself, and he looked her up and down with a nod.

Beckoning her back, "Come."

Not sure as to why she obeyed, Susan had to gather the skirts up not used to their bulk, her bare feet slapping on the floor, "What now?"

"This," his hand reached up, pulling her face to his, Caspian's mouth moving over hers. The action was desperate, a plea for just a bit more comfort. Accepting it despite the urge to smack him or gag, Susan let him do it so maybe he'd hurt a little less. Susan was the first to break from it, breathless, and he let her, not looking at her at all.

Calm once more Caspian gathered up his spare clothes and left.

Before he closed the door a final admonishment, "Dress that way from now on."


End file.
